He looked offended.
“Dad wasn’t using it.”
I lifted the pillowcase.
It smelled faintly of Julian too.
“You sleep with this?”
“Sometimes.”
“This has been missing for months.”
I smoothed the pillowcase across my knee.
“Why didn’t you tell me you missed Dad this much?”
Toby frowned. “I do tell you.”
I looked at him.
“No, sweetheart. You tell me you’re fine.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you missed Dad this much?”
He stared at me as if I had just failed an easy math problem.
Then he reached into the box and held up one of the luggage tags.
“Remember this?”
I did.
Julian had come home from Denver and Toby insisted on keeping the tag because he liked the airport abbreviation.
“Remember this?”
At least, that’s what I’d thought.
Toby put it back.
“I ask how many socks Dad packs. Because socks tell you how long.”
I blinked. “What?”
“If he takes four pairs, that’s usually three sleeps. Five means maybe four.”
“I ask how many socks Dad packs. Because socks tell you how long.”
I thought of all those mornings Toby sat on our bed while Julian packed.
I’d assumed he simply enjoyed helping.
“That’s why you count his socks?” I asked.
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