She hung up a few minutes later, saying she had another call to make. Andrea really wasn’t looking forward to this next call, but she dialed her mother’s number in New York all the same. It was 9:30 p.m. on the East Coast, and Cynthia was probably sitting in her bed with a cup of tea. As for Andrea’s father, who knew where he was—probably out, eating a steak or drinking a whiskey or making some kind of complicated deal.

But to her surprise, a different voice answered when she picked up. “Max?” She was shocked. “Put Mom on, will you?”

Andrea realized too late she hadn’t properly modulated her voice. Max was silent a long time. She sucked in her stomach. She hadn’t wanted it to come out like this.

“Mom, um, told me.” Max said quietly, “Andrea, right?”

Andrea blinked hard. Her blood was ice. She had no idea what to say. She couldn’t gauge Max’s tone.

“Is it weird that I knew even when we were little?” he then said. “I always had that sense. Not specifically or anything—just that you weren’t happy. But hey, if this is your truth, then live it.”

Andrea’s hand fluttered to her mouth. When even more silence passed, Max said, “Are you still there?”

“Y-Yes,” she stammered. “I . . . I’m just surprised.”

“That I’m not the asshole you always thought?” Max chuckled. “I’m not Dad.” Then he added, “You want me to put Mom on?”

Their mother. Andrea’s heart sank. “I don’t know. I’m going to tell her that everything’s going to come out. All of it—about me. I’m going to make a preemptive statement. It’s time.”

The line fuzzed with static. The pause was so long that now Andrea was about to ask if Max was still there. Maybe he was having second thoughts, now that this would no longer be a secret. “She might have a heart attack,” Max said carefully.

“I know. I get what that will mean for her—and for you. If you’re done with me, I understand.”

“I don’t need to be done with you.” Max cleared his throat. “I can’t speak for Mom or Dad, but if you need someone, you can call me.”