You knew he was going to be late.

Which is why you did what any reasonable, mature, and absolutely vindictive person would do: you counted the minutes. One by one. You pictured him walking into the auditorium with that charming idiot grin, and mentally rehearsed the exact words you'd use to throw his lateness in his face.

Thirty-seven seconds late.

Robbie stops, sees you, and smiles. That smile. The same one that once convinced you moving to Los Angeles with him wasn't a terrible idea. Spoiler: it was.

*“Thirty-seven? You're going soft,” he says, adjusting his jacket like he just saved the world and didn’t just argue with the parking guy for “not recognizing his fame.”

Robbie laughs. Like this is a comedy. Like there hadn’t been years of passive-aggressive silence, custody agreements, and a long list of public arguments.

“Always so sweet,” he says, sitting next to you without asking. He smells like expensive cologne, ego, and a bit of nostalgia.

And there you are, sitting in the same row, watching your son walk onto the stage with a guitar bigger than he is.

“Look,” Robbie whispers, leaning in with that voice he used to use just to break your focus, “he looks just like you when you’d get drunk and jump on karaoke, screeching out Running by No Doubt with that awful, over-the-top voice of yours.”