I try to think back to a time when we had any prolonged physical contact as kids and draw a blank. Rattled, I step away from the warmth of his arm. He lets me go easily as if this isn’t a momentous occasion, and instantly I feel foolish.

Of course it isn’t a big deal. People tease and hug each other all the time without any weird ulterior motives. Inwardly, I shake my head at myself and move on.

We stop under the shade of a eucalyptus tree. Macon takes a bite of mango, licking his lip when juice threatens to roll down to his chin. I’m momentarily distracted by the sight.

“Have you watched Dark Castle yet?” he asks, oblivious to my rapt attention on his mouth.

“Ah . . . not as of yet.”

“Not as of yet?” Wry amusement laces his voice. “Is it the sex scenes I’m in or just my nudity in general you’re avoiding, Grandma?”

My eyes narrow in a warning that does nothing but make the corners of his eyes crinkle with sly humor.

“Neither.” It’s both, actually. “I just haven’t had time to trudge through two seasons’ worth of beheadings, disembowelings, and brothel visits.”

I’m clearly not fooling him a bit. “How about I have the studio send over a highlight reel instead?”

“It’s almost as though you want me to see your bare ass.”

“More like I want to see your reaction to my bare ass,” he says with a quick wink.

I huff out a breath. “Juvenile.”

“With you? Guilty.”

We share a quick grin, but his fades.

“It’s why I went into acting, you know.”

I’m about to unwrap my mango half but stop at his words. “You want to explain that non sequitur?”

“The bullshitting. I spent my entire life pretending to be someone else; I thought, why not try it professionally?”

“Pretending?” I repeat stupidly.

Color floods the crests of his cheeks, and he clears his throat. “I was never fully myself with anyone.”

My voice comes out as a whisper of sound. “Why couldn’t you be yourself?”

“I didn’t know how,” he says back, just as low. “No one in my house ever did.”

Macon shifts his weight onto his bad leg, winces, then leans back on his good leg. He clutches the smooth egg-shaped amber knob at the top of his cane hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “That’s why I loved going to your house. For better or worse, you all were entirely yourselves. It was beautiful and strange to me, as if I was watching a beloved play, but the actors were speaking in a foreign language.”

For a moment, I can’t move. The crowds of people drift by, and I simply stare at Macon and wonder if I’ve ever really seen him. I’d recognize his face anywhere. I used to see it in my nightmares. Though older, his features haven’t changed: the same sculpted cheeks, square jaw, and bold, high-bridged nose. The same well-shaped lips that manage to appear both uncompromising and wonderfully soft. He still has a freckle at the corner of his right eye. On a woman it would be called a beauty mark. And yet this Macon is something entirely different—willingly showing me pieces of himself that aren’t perfect.