I'd driven Law home from a hundred family dinners over the years, and I'd never once heard him go quiet the way he did that night — not sulking, not irritated, just thinking, his eyes on the window the whole drive back to his place instead of on his phone like usual.
"Good evening, sir?" I asked, mostly to see what he'd say.
"Fine," he said, which from anyone else would have meant nothing, and from Law meant considerably more than fine.
"Your mother seemed pleased," I offered.
"She liked him," Law said, sounding faintly surprised by his own observation, like he hadn't expected that outcome any more than I had.
I let the silence sit for a block or two before pushing further, the way I'd learned to over the years — give him room, then close the gap. "And you, sir? Did you like him?"
"That's not the point of the arrangement," Law said, too quickly.
"I didn't ask about the arrangement," I said. "I asked about you."
He didn't answer that one at all, which told me more than any answer would have. I dropped him off at his apartment without pushing further, but I sat in the car a long moment after he'd gone inside, thinking about the boy who'd come home from high school once with color in his face that had nothing to do with anger, and wondering whether I was about to watch that same story play out differently this time, or exactly the same.