Tyler finally turned.
His smile vanished.
For one long, terrible second, he stared at us as if we were the ones who had done something wrong.
Then he looked at Mason’s little backpack, the drawing tucked beneath his arm, and my phone in my hand.
“What are you two doing here?” he demanded.
I stared at him.
Not Whyare you here?
Not Mason, buddy, what a surprise!
Not even I’m sorry.
Just a question delivered with the irritation of a man whose carefully arranged plans had suddenly become inconvenient.
“I thought our son might like to see his father fly,” I answered quietly.
Vanessa’s eyes widened.
“You have a son?”
Tyler’s jaw tightened.
“Vanessa, this isn’t—”
“You told me you and your wife were separated,” she interrupted.
The terminal seemed to grow quieter around us.
