He didn’t seem to know who to look at—so he glanced between the two of us like we were playing an invisible match of telekinetic Ping-Pong. The sheer effort seemed to be making him dizzy.

“So you got out of rehab easy enough?” I said, mostly to fill the silence.

“Yeah, well…” said Roscoe, shrugging. “It was an emergency. The police called the center I was staying at. Plus, I checked myself in, so…”

Wynezra said nothing. She was stewing. A pot of boiling silence.

“But, um…” he said, “I’ll probably check myself back in once everything here is settled. The usual stint is six weeks, and that’s probably what I need to get my bearings straight anyway.”

He glanced from me, to Wynezra, back to me.

“We don’t have to do this right now if you don’t want to,” he said. He was apparently using a plural you because his gaze was fixed in space, directly between us.

Wynezra’s eyes grew misty, but her face hardened. It was a fierce juxtaposition of emotions, and they did not seem to be operating in Roscoe’s favor.

“Actually, we do,” said Wynezra.

Roscoe finally looked at her.

He looked directly at her.

“I want to forgive you,” she said. “But I think, deep down, we both know that what you did was unforgivable. Hell, I don’t even know what forgiveness means! Forgive? Don’t forgive? All I know is that Mom is dead, and that’s a forever thing. We’re never getting her back. Not in this life anyway. And this life is waaaaaaay too fucking long and painful for me to focus on anything else.”

Roscoe was speechless. Breathless.

“But I have a friend,” said Wynezra. She looked at me. “And he has taught me that I deserve to be happy. Goddammit, man! I am so fucking sick and tired of punishing myself for something that isn’t my fault! I deserve to have a father in my life! And I’m sorry, buddy, but you’re it. You’re all that I’ve got. So, if you’re willing to give that to me, then I’m willing to take whatever you got. Just know that you have seven years to make up, so you better make ’em count. I expect the princess treatment: breakfast in bed, deep-tissue foot massages, the works. And just so you know, my feet smell like ass, so this is not gonna be a picnic for you.”

Roscoe’s eyes were wet. Overflowing.

And they never broke from Wynezra’s gaze.

Not for a moment.

“Nona?” he said. His bottom lip quivered. “Is that really you?”

Wynezra’s face was like aquarium glass, and it shattered—flooding with teary happiness.

“Yes!” Her voice—my voice—was soft, brittle, delicate. “It’s me.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god, Nona!”