The way she didn’t hit him—not really, Jack said, not after the time she grabbed him in anger when he was three and dislocated his arm—so it couldn’t have been that bad, and why was he upset, now, when he’d never have to go back, when so many other people had it so much worse? He hadn’t starved, Jack insisted, he’d just—been hungry. And that bedroom was—he’d always had a place to live, after all—and his mother wasn’t to blame, really, she was probably doing her best, and—

They just didn’t ever have enough money, and that was the problem, obviously—it was the money, always the money, and not that she spent what little she made on herself—

How she called him right before he left the country to talk about—about needing help from him, now that he had made good—and he’d hung up, finally grown and strong and independent, and wasn’t it hilarious that he’d felt a little sick just hearing her voice?

Jack had laughed, Theo remembered that so clearly. Like it was all so funny. Neglect and abuse and the little ways that he coped, laughing, rubbing at his nose, shivering in his arms, and then Jack kissed him with such fierce, violent intensity that Theo hadn’t been able to blurt out, My father locked me in our cellar, sometimes, and the back of his hand was so strong, and—

And Theo was so angry. He took Jack into him, both of them still cold, and it was rough and desperate and so, so good.

“Jesus, Theo, look at this place.”

He shook his head, eyes clearing, finally wrenching his gaze away and toward the apartment. And it was stunning. Perfect. He could kiss Genni, if he didn’t know by now that she’d slap him.

Theo glanced back at Jack’s face, comically blank with surprise, mouth hanging open, and felt a wild giggle climbing up his throat. Swallowing the undignified noise, he watched Jack enter what must have been the nicest apartment in the entire city.

He wished it were his. He drank down that bitterness, composure regained.

Dark—nearly black—hardwood floors stretched out in a large room that was floor to ceiling windows, looking out over the Baltimore skyline, the red Domino Sugar sign and the glimmer of light on the water. The space was completely open, with a large kitchen in a minimalist style taking up the left side. An island, ice-white marble with sleek black cabinets, had room for four barstools.

It should have been cold, new and unlived in, but it was fully furnished with thick rugs and plush couches, a real fireplace, open bookshelves with recessed lighting, everything seeming soft and cozy and perfect for long afternoons with endless hot cups of coffee.