“I really liked it,” she said, with a nod. “More than I thought I would.”

“How so?”

“The juxtaposition between what Mary thinks is going on in her and Sebastian’s relationship versus the reality that she’s in complete denial about. It’s like there are two voices in her head, the yin and yang of the universe.”

“Phoebe studied English at Cambridge.” Tyler slid into his seat. “We met when I went back for a reunion dinner last year.”

“Really?” A moment ago, Emily would have found this news irritating, would simply have seen it as yet more evidence that, for some people, life was a series of fortunate events, whereas for others it was all they could do to scramble to keep up. Now Emily looked at Phoebe with different eyes; understood that no one ever really knows what goes on inside a person’s mind, or their heart, that each and every one of us have demons to battle with at some point along the way.

“Fat lot of good it did me, though.” Phoebe gestured for Tyler to move, to let her out. “Twenty-three and working as a waitress in a cocktail bar.”

“You still have time,” Emily said, watching as Phoebe made her way toward the toilets in the next carriage, saw her offer up an apology when she tripped over a bag someone had left in the aisle. It made Emily wish she could go back, start again, offer up more than hostility to someone who was clearly just as lost as she was.

Tyler unwrapped a toasted panini, the scent of roasted tomatoes and basil closing the gap between them. He took a large bite and waved the sandwich in Emily’s direction. “You of all people don’t get to judge her based on what she looks like.”

“I wasn’t.” Only she was.

“You’re still beautiful, no matter what you think.”

Hand to her scar, Emily dipped her chin. “Stop.”

Emily had been beautiful, as a child. She knew it because of the way people always commented on her appearance or looked at her a certain way. It’s also what made her so acutely aware of the difference after the accident because of how everyone stared at her and her scar. At the half of her face which didn’t quite fit.

“I mean it,” he said, taking another bite, then handing the rest to her. “You shouldn’t be so focused on things that no one else cares about.”

Emily turned the sandwich over, then around, pulled a string of melted mozzarella from its center. “You mean my parents.”

“No, I mean you. Always thinking you’re only worth something because of her. She was holding you back,” he said, stabbing his finger onto Emily’s sketchbook. “Stagnating you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You have so much talent. Your drawings are incredible, even you must be able to see that? You don’t need her, or her legacy. You can do this without her.”

I wanted to be a writer. The thought popped into her mind without warning. Another thought, another memory, but one that wouldn’t quite let her peel back the curtains to see. The same kitchen, this time with snow on the ground and a cake in the oven. The cat was just a kitten and Emily had been teasing it with the end of a ribbon from her mother’s sewing basket.