“Atlas, you know I can’t go on record.” Cardinal rule: children of politicians cannot air their family’s dirty laundry. Not even when they’re dead. Not even when they’re guilty. Especially not when they’re guilty.

“But you knew your father,” he said.

“I didn’t, obviously. And we just can’t handle the scrutiny right now. It’s bad enough what Gregory did. But he’s gone, and I’m still getting the finger from strangers on the daily.” I plucked the last can of soda from my fridge, popped it open. Flat. Atlas was right. In so many ways I was organized. Yet I couldn’t manage to get to the grocery store before soda went bad. “And isn’t it true that reporters end up hating their subjects?”

“You’re thinking of biographers. Will you come out of the kitchen now?” He cocked his head. “I feel like you’re hiding from me in there.”

He was right. Reporter or not, this was Atlas. “Yes, I will. But once I do, we will not talk about my father, or your story, for the rest of the afternoon.”

“You called it my story.” He smiled, slightly at first, then wider. Even with the distance, I could see the laugh lines deepening around his eyes. “Come on, then. Let’s shake on it.”

For better or worse, DC has a short memory. People seem more willing, here, to soon forget a scandal. In the meantime, Atlas had moved back. Wallis was home. Cricket was managing. I still had a job. Things could be worse.

I left my bad soda on the counter and stepped out of the kitchen, walking as slowly as a bride down the aisle. He stood by my couch, waiting, watching, and I thought of grooms and altars and all those other lovely dreams before I shook myself awake.

When I reached him, he held out his hand for me.

“I will think about the interview,” I said, taking it.

“Good,” he said with a nod as we shook.

I took in his familiar, comforting face. The way his hair settled just over his ears, the way he made words into cozy blankets—he was near, and this article he was talking about, and my father, for that matter, seemed very far. I wanted to keep it that way. “But no more work-talk for the rest of the day.”

“A gentleman’s agreement,” he said. “Although I am no gentleman.”

I was still grasping his hand. The broad palm. The long fingers.

Jesus. If I wasn’t careful, he’d surely see how I felt. And how does a friendship come back from that? I gently broke off contact, wondering whether he might try to resist, to keep us close. But he let me go.

I cleared my throat. “You know what I need?”

“A vacation?” he joked. “A time machine?”

“A big bowl of beautiful, spicy umami ramen.”