He nods, but I see the way he sets his jaw, a bulwark against what I think is some lingering embarrassment. I take a deep breath.

“The most important thing is that I’m sorry about last week. About the fight we had, and about how mad I got. What I said to you—it was really unfair.”

“It wasn’t unfair. It’s like I said last night”—he clears his throat, lowering his eyes—“I’m well aware of my faults, especially the one you mentioned.”

“It’s not a fault,” I say quickly, and he gives me a look I’ve never seen on his face, a cock of his head that looks a lot like sarcasm—a look that somehow telegraphs all the small moments where Reid’s bluntness got the best of him: calling me a shopgirl. Scolding me for not having an umbrella. Asking me about my health insurance.

You know it is, that look says.

“Or at least it’s no worse a fault than my own, which is . . . well, I guess it’s one you already know about.”

Reid waits, and for a couple of seconds, I do, too. I think about my parents and about Sibby, about how my fight with Reid pressed up against everything about my life that hurt before I came to New York, and about everything that hurts about it now.

“I hide things. My feelings about things in my life, or in the lives of people I care about. I hide them in my letters, and I hide them when I’m talking about the weather or Frisbee or whatever other thing I fill up the space with—”

“I like everything you talk about.”

You know you don’t, my look back to him says, and then I take a breath before I speak again.

“Last week,” I begin, “I was really . . . I was trying so hard to hide, I guess. I was upset about this thing at work, and some things from my past it reminded me of, but instead of telling you that, I tried to distract you.” I swallow. “That’s something I’m realizing I do too much, to keep me—”

“I never meant you to feel unprotected,” Reid says, his eyes full of regret. “I wouldn’t ever want to make you feel that way.”

“You punched a guy in the face for me last night,” I say, my mouth curving into a teasing smile. “I feel pretty protected.”

Reid ducks his head, his hair falling forward, skimming his stitched-up brow. “I only wanted you to—”

“Be honest,” I finish for him. “Say what I mean.”

His lips press together, which I take to mean agreement.

“I want to try that,” I say. “Being honest. Talking about the things that are difficult. When I hide them—they seem to come out in other ways, anyway.”