Chef pulled a black chef’s bandanna from his pocket and held it out.

I looked from the folded square to his face.

“Take it.” His eyes did that attractive crinkle thing at the corners. “It’s clean.”

“Thanks.” I blotted my eyes. “We didn’t even talk that much before,” I said, my voice muffled by the comforting folds of cloth. Dad was the one I talked to, whose interest and approval I craved. I’m sure Mom would have loved to chat with me about raising children and sewing curtains the way she did with Meg. Except I didn’t have children. I barely had a window. “It’s just . . . She’s always been there, you know?”

In the background. Safe and sound and boring enough that I could live my life without ever having to think about home.

“How long will she be in rehab?” Chef asked.

“A month. Maybe two?” I blew my nose. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m bothering you with this.”

“Because you have no one else to talk to.”

“That’s not . . .” I stopped. Okay, maybe, since Ashmeeta moved out, it was a little true. Rachel had followed her boyfriend to Portland. My college friends had gone on with their lives, finishing law school or internships at Ernst & Young, buying furniture at Ikea. My colleagues from the paper no longer called.

“We have totally different schedules now,” I told Meg when she asked.

But that was an excuse. Newspapers everywhere were closing, merging, downsizing. Being with me reminded them that their own jobs were at risk. And the truth was, I flinched from seeing myself through their eyes. Poor, expendable Jo.

“I talk to my sister,” I said. “Every day.”

But Meg had her hands full dealing with things back home. It wasn’t fair to dump my feelings on her, even if she had time to listen.

“Your sister with the twins,” Chef said. “In North Carolina.”

He remembered.

I nodded. “Everybody’s in North Carolina.” Including his ex-wife. Oops. I bumbled on. “I mean, Meg and her family, obviously. My parents. Aunt Phee. Oh, and Trey.”

Who hadn’t called since I got back to New York. Probably a good thing. The truth was, I was lonely and at loose ends. Trey’s familiar comfort was a temptation to be avoided.

He’d been so glad to see me at Thanksgiving. Why hadn’t he called?

“Trey is your brother?”

For some reason, my face got hot. I shook my head. “A friend.”

Chef looked at me, his hazel eyes unreadable. “Ah.”

“My sister Beth goes to school in Greensboro. Well, not now. She’s in Branson now. Missouri? She got a part in a Christmas show there.” Like he cared. Stop talking. “And Amy—she’s the baby—is in Paris.” Dear God, I sounded like a travelogue. “Not that it makes any difference. It’s always been me and Meg, really. We’re the oldest.”

“You protect them.”

“Yeah. Kind of. Beth feels guilty enough already. And any conversation with Amy always revolves around Amy.”