Immediately, he sits and scoops me close. My tears come even faster then, because he is my safety net, and I’ve fallen a huge distance. How calm and organized my life was six days ago, how in control. And now?

Safety nets don’t ask questions or murmur empty platitudes. Safety nets don’t say anything at all. They’re simply there, holding you until you exhaust yourself. Then, maybe they wipe at your tears with their fingers—or Jack, with the heel of his hands. And still they say nothing until you, and only you, speak first.

A safety net doesn’t need apologies, still I feel the need to say, “I’m sorry. That was a poor show of defiance.”

“Are you kidding?” this safety net asks and turns back into smart-mouthed Jack. “Look where we are. Look what we’re doing. Look what we’re wearing.”

“Or not,” I say in a meek quip. “But crying?”

“Anne sobbed through the funeral. You did not. This is your time.”

I give him a yeah, right look, which may or may not have registered, since my eyes are still wet, so I say, “Crying for Tom? I’d like to take credit for that, but it’s so much more.” Hearing the words, I stop, look at Jack, see his curiosity. I owe him.

“It’s Paul,” I say very quietly.

He frowns. “Paul.”

“My father.”

“Paul?” His brows rise. “Paul?” He makes a face of utter disbelief. “That Paul?”

I feel an unexpected spark of protectiveness. “What’s wrong with it being him?”

“Uh, nothing—nothing,” Jack stammers, looking as muddled as I must have back at the cemetery with Paul. “It’s just—how?”

I tell the story quickly, sharing as much as I’m able, because, while Paul’s revelation isn’t as strange the second time around, it remains upending. I barely make it through the basics before the bottom line returns. Paul is only the final straw in a muddled haystack. “I come back for a week, and my life is turned upside down!”

“Or right side up,” Jack says.

While on mute, my phone has been busy. There are texts from Joy, from Chrissie, from Margo. There are three VMs from New York, one each from my Sotheby’s broker, my stylist for Saturday’s shoot, and the hair salon reminding me that I have an appointment for a cut next Tuesday.

I read Joy’s texts before I’m even dressed. She says she’s on the beach with her cousins and when will I be there? On my way, I text back, and quickly add Twenty minutes, to which she immediately replies, Bring Jack. He’ll die at who I’m with, to which I reply, Who are you with? to which she simply sends an angel emoji.