There’s a sheen to his eyes, a deep, weighted sadness. I sense that he’s kept these thoughts inside and now they’re spilling out, maybe unintentionally. I don’t know what it’s like to be in his shoes, but I know that sometimes you just need someone to listen. So I do.

“She was the same age as me, you know,” he says. “Lena was. When her dad died.”

I didn’t know. At least, I hadn’t made that connection.

“It’s weird,” he says. “Not the right word, but…”

He gives himself a shake.

“Lauren and my mom have each other. They know what it’s like to become an only parent overnight—it’s not exactly the same, but it’s similar, I guess. They can talk about it. They get it.”

He runs his hand over the back of his neck.

“I thought I could be that for Lena. That there would be this understanding between us. This bond. And it was that way at first. We talked a lot. We got really close. But…” He lifts his shoulders, holds them, releases them. “I fell off the wagon, and broke whatever connection we had. She doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”

His guilt is palpable, and Teddy lets out a soft, mournful little woof from the backseat, pushing her nose against Gabe’s arm. He reaches back and scratches her neck.

“She’s a teen girl,” I say. “I think their genetic disposition is to be silent and surly for at least two years, maybe three.”

Gabe smiles a little at that.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. I keep reaching out, hoping that she knows I’m here for her.”

“I’m sure she does,” I say.

“Still hurts, though. Still feels like there’s something more I should do.”

I think about reaching out for his hand, but already this moment is so intimate, so raw, that I keep the impulse to myself.

“Give her time.” I offer platitudes instead. “All you can do is be there when she’s ready.”

He lets out a breath.

“Yeah,” he says.

As if she knows we’re talking about her, Lena steps out onto the porch. She’s taken off her shoes and jacket, so she’s standing there, in the dark and the cold, in her socks and T-shirt, her jeans ripped at the knee, well-worn everywhere else. Throwing out her arms, she gives a look of exasperation so spot-on that it’s hard not to be impressed.

Having effectively made her point, she turns and goes back into the house.

“I guess the food is ready,” Gabe says.

Dinner is all homemade, from the lasagna to the garlic bread. Conversation is stilted, mainly because of some unmentioned fight that seems to have occurred between Lauren and her daughter.