“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.

I want to ask him why his family weren’t themselves, why he felt the need to play a part. But it’s clear that regret for speaking too freely is creeping up on him, his gaze darting around as though he’d rather look at anything but me.

Whether he wanted to or not, Macon gave up a private piece of himself. One that I doubt anyone has ever seen. I feel . . . humbled.

“Oh, my family were ourselves all right,” I say with a light shrug as if the air between us hasn’t become too heavy with old ghosts. “To the point of oversharing. Don’t tell me Sam never mentioned ‘Family Grievance Night.’”

A protracted, shocked laugh escapes him. “No. What?” He grins, easier now. “Do tell, Ms. Baker.”

Ordinarily, I’d take the horrors of Family Grievance Night with me to the grave. But he shared with me. I can do the same for him.

“Whenever we started bickering too much for Mama to take, she’d sit us all down as a family, and we had to ‘air our grievances.’”

Macon is clearly a hair’s breadth from cracking up. His eyes are glossy with restraint. “You mean like Festivus?”

I cringe, remembering too well. “But without the pole.”

A snort rings out, and he runs his hand over his mouth.

“I’m pretty sure Mama got the idea from Seinfeld. Whatever the case, it never went well.”

“You don’t say.”

“Inevitably we’d end up squabbling so badly that—”

“You engaged in the Feats of Strength?” He waggles his brows, biting his lower lip in an ill-concealed attempt to hold back a full grin.