He couldn’t stand, sometimes, eating alone or with his mother in the dining room, the long ebony table that had once been ruled over by his father, the uncomfortable chairs, the silence. He felt so isolated by the bareness of those moments, nothing in the room with him but the life he wished he had had. And sometimes Mother, whom he—he couldn’t help but resent, even though she had softened with time. She hadn’t seemed all that interested in him to begin with, so why dissemble now?

Despite her recent tenderness, he held in him the knowledge that any affection she felt was limited. Couldn’t be real. And sometimes he wanted to scream at her, unhinged, even though his choices weren’t her fault. Look at what I gave up for you!

So he was here, in the beautifully remodeled kitchen, a book open in front of him on the butcher block island, a bowl of soup and a crusty roll. He fed himself mechanically, feeling no pleasure in taking sustenance. He just knew he had to do this, had to eat, even though he—

His phone pinged. He opened his text messages. His heart stuttered as he read one stupid, useless word.

Was that supposed to tempt him?

What did Jack want him to say?

He wished he had never given him his number.

He still felt sick, a disturbed wincing in his stomach from the time spent with Jack in his new apartment. Talking to him again—Theo had never wanted to need something like that. When he got married to Alexia he relearned affection, relearned how to laugh—she really was a wonderful woman, and he took real pleasure in their occasional phone calls and letters—but that other thing, the raw thing, was buried. No one had access to it. It was his pain and his alone. He pushed his cell phone away.

Even Genni—he didn’t want her to see this. The loneliness. The wanting. She’d known he was hurt, but the full truth of it was—it wasn’t for her to know.

Sometimes he caught Phil looking at him, that quiet and invasive stare, and he thought that maybe he knew. He remembered the way that Phil used to gaze at Genni, before they were together; he thought about a small boy’s longing for stories of his father; and Theo thought, yes, maybe Phil did understand. Maybe he sees right through me. And Tom—Tom had learned how to love, almost accidentally, and Theo tried not to be bitterly jealous that his childhood friend had gotten it so right, so soon.

But still he kept it unspoken. It didn’t need to be laid out for anyone, a history of his utter foolishness. And by keeping it silent he hid it from himself. Not completely, but enough.