After the state dinner, Nick had kept slipping away. Anytime I nudged the conversation in the direction of his feelings, he deflected, changed the subject, or didn’t respond to me at all. More often, I caught him simply staring out the window, which I knew from past experience meant he was adrift in whatever choppy inner seas he was hiding from me. And I got the distinct impression he was circumventing going to sleep until I was already conked out, or sneaking up to bed early so he’d be snoring by the time I noticed. Sometimes I’d wake up in the night to find him wrapped around me the way he used to, and I’d breathe deeply, inhaling him, enjoying it until he stirred enough to catch himself and roll away. Other times, he didn’t come up to bed at all. It wasn’t healthy, and I’m sure he knew it, but he seemed to believe avoidance would keep the cracks from getting any deeper.

No such luck.

New Mentality was a subsidized in-patient facility in Dalston that served at-risk teens struggling with anxiety and depression. The organization had been making a strong play for a patronage ever since Nick had told the nation the truth about his mother’s own condition a few years back, and the brothers had made mental and emotional health one of their primary causes. Freddie and Nick and I were coming by to admire New Mentality’s athletic field, and then sit down for some casual roundtable discussions with the kids and staff. It was the sort of relaxed engagement both men could do in their sleep. But it was also the first time the three of us had been in close quarters since the fight and that fleeting, awkward moment at the state dinner. We were on what the palace called a “private visit,” which meant there were no journalists or photographers there, and this was a blessing because even an unpaid intern on their first day would’ve realized something serious was up. Freddie and Nick were impassive at best, stony at worst.