Jonah jerks his head, snapping the neck of invisible prey in his mouth. “I promised I wouldn’t,” he says.

“Promised who?”

“Nick,” he says.

I fill in the blanks: “Because you loved him.”

Jonah stares at the ceiling, shrugs, shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Jonah. I already know,” I bluff.

His face falls. His eyes widen but he does not say a word.

“I know everything,” I lie.

Just like that, my boy is unburdened, he slumps low and asks, “You do?”

I nod.

He breathes a sigh that turns into a wail. “Thank you for finally being real with me.” He hugs his legs and hangs his head, saying through a muffling net of limbs, “How long have you known?”

Play it safe. “Not long.”

Jonah convulses, or something. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It seemed best to let the two of you handle it.”

“But didn’t you feel like—like it was your place to get involved?” His desperation breaks my heart. His obfuscation tests my temper.

“It wasn’t my business.” I want to comfort my son, not coddle him. So what? He’s gay. Own it, don’t be wimpy about it. “Whatever special relationship you and Nick had, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Wait,” he says, with a lightness to the word that reminds me of how he spoke as a child. Less worry, more confusion. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

I cock my head. “What are you talking about?”

“The thing you knew—the big secret—was that me and Nick were together?”

I grit my teeth. I’ve said too much.

“That’s everything?” he asks.

My cool cracks. “Well, what then, Jonah? If that’s not it, what the hell are you crying about?” Scraps of memories. Details. The events flip and shift in a watery time line—my early consultation with Nick, Jonah leaving for his mother’s, and before all this, footsteps on the stairs—and yes, something else: my bedroom door. It opened and closed late that night. Early in the morning, rather. My son is smiling. The walls of his room shimmer and throb. “Tell me now,” I demand. My equilibrium tips. “Tell me, Jonah.”

“I’m afraid you got it all wrong.” He is cold and steady when he says, “Please don’t be mad at her, Dad. It’s not her fault.”

I blink. That’s all. I blink and hear, her, her, her.

“I don’t know how this happened.”

Her. My skull creaks. “How what happened?”

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

“Say it.” From behind my eyes, a sharp cold radiates to every groove in my brain, every crack in every bone. Ice and marrow. I want to light my own son on fire for relief, but first I repeat, “Say it, Jonah.” My teeth rattle.

“It was an accident,” he allows. “It just happened. Somehow it happened.”

“What happened?”

“We happened,” he says.