He loved Baltimore the way he loved Meg; Baltimore was home. Looking out over the city he felt such a surge of rightness, of belonging—and this new apartment, so modern and unfamiliar, was an extension of that belonging, like a new chapter in an often reread book. He hadn’t been sure that he could find a home now where he felt welcome, because he’d never had to do that on his own. But he liked this place, and he liked himself in it. He liked the story as if it were something he could tell someone else: Jack Gardner, multimillionaire, in this penthouse apartment with a view over his whole world. A castle, a kingdom, a myth.

But maybe all of that was a myth, something which held very little truth. Because up here, so close to the sky, he had no idea who he really was. Who he was without the story.

And it had been that way for quite some time.

Right after Amethyst was born, and he and Meg had decided they were finished with having children—three was enough, if not more than enough—Jack had been haunted by a small voice, the voice of himself as a child, asking, Is this all there is? And he shook his head against it, trying to clear his mind, but it echoed all around him. He moved through his days, his nights curled up with Meg, reading to the kids, walking through the city with strollers and ice creams, and everything almost seemed to mock him, murmuring.

You know, Jack, that voice had said. You know this isn’t what you want. What you’ve always wanted.

But you chose this.

He tried—he’d known that there was a moment, different moments on different days but on every day nonetheless, when he thought about a time when he had been happier. When he had been—been honest. Those were the thoughts with blond hair and gray eyes and a deep arousal which had seemed, now, so far out of reach. He didn’t know how to reconcile the Jack from Ireland with the Jack who loved his family, and so he put it away as much as he possibly could. He was split, two selves diverging and neither content, but he didn’t know what else to do. He thought he could just—just keep going. Maybe if he pretended long enough it wouldn’t feel so bad. So he built his story, his path, brick by red brick.

He walled himself off, as he had done since he was a child.