Last night, Riley had tried to drag him in to see Blue’s murals, but he’d wanted to see them for the first time with Blue, and he’d refused. Now, he turned away from the dining room without looking in and wandered into the living room. The deep-seated couches were a perfect fit for his long frame, and the television had been positioned so he could watch game film without light reflecting on the screen. The sheets of precisely cut glass protecting the wooden coffee table made drink coasters unnecessary. Drawers held whatever he might need: books, remote controls, nail clippers. Upstairs, none of the beds had footboards, and the bathroom counters were higher than normal. The showers were spacious, and extra-long towel racks held the oversize bath sheets he preferred. April had done it all.

The echoes of her drunken sobs whispered in his ears. “Don’t be mad at me, baby. It’ll get better. I promise. Tell me you love me, baby. If you tell me you love me, I promise I won’t drink anymore.”

The woman who’d tried to suffocate him with her twisted, erratic love could never have created this oasis that had become his home.

Today had been too much. He needed time to come to terms with all these muddled feelings, except he’d had years, and what good had it done him? Through the French doors, he saw April entering the screen porch from outside. He and Jack had built that porch, but she’d conceived of it: the high ceiling, the arched windows, the slate floor that was cool on even the hottest day.

She braced the heels of her hands in the small of her back to cool down from her run. Her body glistened with sweat. She wore black shorts, a bright blue racerback top, and she’d pulled her hair into a twisted ponytail far more stylish than Blue’s haphazard arrangement.

He needed to get into the shower. He needed to be by himself. He needed to talk to Blue, who understood everything. Instead, he pushed the handle on the French doors and quietly stepped out onto the porch.

The temperature had already hit the mid-eighties, but the tiles were cool against his bare feet. April had her back to him. He’d moved the chairs last night when he’d hosed down the porch, and she was pushing them under the table again. He walked over to the CD player that sat on a black wrought-iron baker’s rack. He didn’t bother to check which of April’s albums was in the changer. If it belonged to his mother, it would be right. He hit the button.

April whirled around as music blared from the small speakers. Her lips parted in surprise. She took in his muddy appearance and started to say something, but he spoke first. “Do you want to dance?”