“Seriously?” he asks Elliot, who shrugs helplessly.

“I don’t know what to tell her,” Elliot says. “She said it would be fine. But clearly it wasn’t.”

Elliot turns and heads into the kitchen. I can tell that it bothers him that Rachel bolted, and I want to think that it’s because he’s a tenderhearted person, and not because he’s worried he messed something up with her long-term.

But, Jesus—who couldn’t have seen that coming a mile away?

He stands at the small range, bending to check on the turkey, and then leans with both hands on the sides of the stove, taking a few deep breaths.

I meet Des’s eyes, and he lifts his chin, telling me to go in there. “He’s terrible at this shit.”

Which throws me. I’m sure Des is absolutely right here, but it’s a rewiring I have to do to really believe it: between the two of us, Elliot was always better at managing complicated emotions.

Even though it’s bright, with a huge window at one end, the kitchen feels tiny. I slide my hands up Elliot’s back, feeling the muscles tense, and to his shoulders, kneading.

The touch is so intimate, I know I can’t lie to him much longer about Sean without looking like a game-playing tease. He looks over his shoulder at me, questioning.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I feel like maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

He turns to face me, leaning back against the stove. “I really want you here. That you were invited wasn’t up for debate. She had the choice whether to come or not.”

“I know, but you’ve been friends with her a long time.”

Turning to the side, he stares out the window, his jaw tense as he thinks. His profile is so . . . grown-up. My brain still has an overwhelming number of young Elliot images. Looking at him now is like looking through a telescope into the future. It’s so weird to be so close to him and imagine all the moments he’s had without me.

“We really do need to talk, at some point,” he whispers.

“About Rachel?”

He scowls. “About all of it, Mace.”

I know I need to hear what he has to say—and God, I owe him my story, too—but today is definitely not the day for another woman to melt down in his apartment.

“So,” I say, just as quietly, mindful of Des in the next room, “let’s find some time. Maybe . . . after Andreas’s wedding?”

“What?” He turns back to me, brows low. “That’s a month away.”

“I think a month is good.” A shrill timer goes off on the counter, but we both ignore it.

Elliot shakes his head a little. “We’ve already had eleven years.”

“Timer,” Des calls from the living room.

“Since I have today off, I have to work on Christmas.” I look past him, at the fume hood above his stove. “I’m taking four days at New Year’s for the wedding, so I’m working almost every day between now and then, and I need . . .” I need time away from work to think how to unpack everything I have to tell him. About Sean, and the last night I saw Elliot eleven years ago, and everything that came after.