“No point in throwing money away, trust fund or no trust fund. But mostly I figured you’d be better off close to home. You didn’t have a lot of confidence in those days.”
As if I had a lot of confidence now. “Toni isn’t afraid. Of anything. She’s more like Mom.”
Em made a noncommittal sound. “Toni’s her own person. Same as you.”
“But braver.”
Another of those noises. Not agreement, not complete disagreement. “Because of you. Toni’s always known she had you in her corner.”
I thought it was a compliment. A nice one. But it left me even more confused. “So you’re just going to let her go to New York?”
“Don’t see how I can stop her. Girl’s not stupid. She knows where she comes from. She knows who to come to if she needs help. She’ll be all right.”
Of all the women in my life, I had known Em the longest. I trusted her the most. Em—no-nonsense, undemonstrative, unsentimental—wouldn’t tell you something simply because it was what you wanted to hear.
She was, I realized, the person I went to when things fell apart. When my mother died. When the pandemic struck. When Gray broke my heart and ruined my reputation and derailed myacademic career, Em had given me refuge. And then pushed me off the couch and into the world again.
“Thanks, Aunt Em.”
“It’s late,” she said. “You should be sleeping.” Which might be as close toI love youas she could get.
I’d take it. “I love you, too,” I said.
Twenty-eight
You’ve checked your phone three times in the last two minutes,” Charles said. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”
Tim glanced up from his phone screen. Charles was silhouetted against Tim’s office window, the view of the docks—steel and glass, water and sky—shrouded in a veil of rain. “What’s your question?”
“That’s my fucking point. Lunch, mate. Lunch.”
Tim dragged his hand across his face. “Sorry. I’m waiting on a text. From Dee.”
“A nooner. Nice.”
“I’m supposed to take her sister to the airport,” Tim answered repressively.
If she responded to his text. If she said yes. He didn’t even know the time of Toni’s flight yet.
“Fallen for your fancy car, has she? You can at least buy me lunch first. Or after. I’m not choosy.”
The frustration pulsing behind Tim’s eyes pounded at the back of his skull. Lack of sleep, probably. The past two nights without Dee had been... difficult. “I can’t commit to anything right now.”
“You sound like Laura.”
“Very funny.” Tim looked at the screen again.
Charles reached across the desk and plucked the phone from his hand.
“Give it over,” Tim said.
“Nope. I want to see what’s so fascinating.” Charles turned back to the windows, scrolling up the message thread. “ ‘It’s eight o’clock. Coming downstairs?’ ” he read out loud. He glanced over his shoulder at Tim. “You do it on a schedule?”
“We watch cooking shows together on Sunday nights,” he said stiffly.
“Is that your sad, posh version of Netflix and chill?”
Tim felt heat move up his face. “She likesGreat British Bake Off.”
