I looked him in the eyes. “I’m sorry for yours.”

“How long will Dauphine remember?” he asked.

“Forever.”

He winced at my honest answer, so I hurried on. “But the pain gets less. She’s a bit younger than I was, so maybe it’s better. Less memories. I don’t know.” I turned my head so I couldn’t see the pain in his face and blinked. The black water glittered.

Xavier took a long and deep sip of his drink. The dull thud of his swallow seemed loud in our silence. “But you have many memories. I can’t tell if that’s good or bad.”

“It’s good, I suppose. Now that time has passed. We would go for walks every Sunday afternoon. The French Huguenot Church was Gothic revival, but then we would walk around and he’d point out the Greek, the West Indian influences, and the colonial British.”

I closed my eyes and enjoyed the air moving along my skin and the lap of water. It helped calm the deep buzz low in my belly where the muscles refused to relax. Where they seemed to feel the pull of Xavier the most. Something I couldn’t control. And was trying to ignore with my babbling. “I learned to pay attention to the details of a building that speak to the observer without being loud. Like a whisper in their minds. It’s what drew me to architecture. It felt like I’d be closer to my father.” I trailed off. I’d probably put him to sleep with my boring building talk.

“What were you doing sneaking in at three in the morning?” he asked, breaking the silence.

I frowned. “What?”

“You said you saw your mother when you snuck in at three in the morning.”

“Did you never do the same?” I volleyed back. “I liked dancing. Were you a very good boy growing up?” I teased.

His eyes narrowed and became hyperfocused on me.

My throat closed in response.

“I was bad.” He took a deep inhale through his nose. “Very, very bad.” His accompanying chuckle lessened the coiling tension. “My parents fought.” He paused then and took a drink of his scotch, almost biting it through his teeth. “My father strayed. My mother was bitter. I stayed out of the way as much as I could. That resulted in lots of unsupervised time and poor decisions. The kind only an angry, horny teenage boy with money to burn can make.” He took another sip.

The moment felt like a gift. I doubted he really wanted to share this history with me, and perhaps tomorrow he’d regret it. But for now, I accepted the offering with gratitude.