Page 58 of The Clinch
Not what?
Fake? Temporary? Damage control?
None of those words feel usable with the ring on my hand.
Marco’s expression changes, less teasing now. “Hey. You don’t have to give me the press release.”
The band sits there—thin, pale, exactly where Leo put it.
“Good. Because I don’t have one.”
He chuckles, straightening. “For what it’s worth, the guy looks at you like he means it.”
“Marco—”
“I’m going back to work.” He waves me off, walking away. “Congratulations, or not. I’ll let you pick later.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me with my chart, my coffee, and the insistent drag of the ring against my skin.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Unknown number. Louisiana area code.
I stare at it until it stops.
No voicemail. No text. Just the number sitting in my recent calls like a stone dropped into still water.
I should tell Leo. I know I should tell Leo.
I lock the screen and go back to work.
By the timewe reach Park Slope that evening, the heat has softened into a slower kind of pressure.
Leo parks a few doors down from a brownstone—deep stoop, tall windows, brick darkened by decades. Old Brooklyn money that doesn’t announce itself.
I knew Eden’s family was comfortable. I knew they’d lived in Park Slope before stroller convoys and celebrity restaurants took over.
I just didn’t realize they came from this version of it.
The door opens before we knock.
His mother stands there with reading glasses pushed into her hair and a book in one hand. Linen pants. Soft sweater. The kind of understated that costs more than it seems.
Her gaze catches on my hand and then comes back to my face.
“Liz.” She smiles, like we’ve already met. “Come in.” She takes my elbow and steers me inside.
The house smells of bread. Books line the hallway. Not arranged. Just there. Used.
His father appears from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel—silver hair, broad shoulders, a calm blue-eyed focus that makes you feel seen without being handled. This is Leo’s future. Same bones. Same steadiness. Just time-softened.
He greets Leo first with a quick embrace and a hand to his shoulder. Then he turns to me.
“Welcome. We’ve been hearing about you.”
“All good things, I hope.”
“He doesn’t talk much. Which tells us plenty.” His father laughs.
Leo doesn’t argue.
