Even now, the word feels slightly formal in my mind.
It’s not that Connor and I are strangers. We have spoken occasionally. Holidays, birthdays, brief visits that never quitesettle into anything resembling comfort. Something exists between us, technically speaking, but there is very little underneath it to support real weight.
I check the time again, despite the fact that only thirty seconds have passed since the last time I did so. The faint knot of nervous energy sitting in my chest is both irritating and instructive. It occurs to me that the discomfort is probably a useful signal.
If something makes you nervous, it usually means you should do it more often. At least, that has been my experience in medicine.
So here we are.
The doorbell rings exactly at seven.
I cross the living room and open the door to find Connor standing there in a tailored coat that probably costs more than the average person’s monthly rent. The coat suits him. Connor has inherited a certain physical presence that draws attention whether he intends it to or not.
“Evening,” he says. His tone is neutral. Polite. Not at all familiar.
“Connor.” I step aside and gesture toward the apartment. “Come in.”
He walks past me and pauses near the dining area, glancing around the space with mild curiosity. The penthouse view tends to have that effect on people. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the harbor, the city lights reflecting off the water in a way that makes Boston look far more romantic than it usually feels.
“Nice place,” he remarks.
“Thank you.”
There’s a small pause after that, the sort that appears when two people are quietly searching for the next logical sentence.
“How have you been?” I ask.
“Busy.” Connor removes his coat and drapes it over the back of the chair. “Work’s been good.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Another pause settles between us.
This, unfortunately, is the fundamental challenge of rebuilding a relationship that never properly formed in the first place. One cannot repair a foundation that was never poured.
Still, I gesture toward the table. “Dinner is ready.”
Connor nods once and takes his seat.
For the first few minutes, we focus almost entirely on the mechanics of eating. Plates are passed, glasses are filled, and the polite choreography of a shared meal unfolds with careful precision. The conversation remains harmless enough—work schedules, general updates, the sort of neutral topics two colleagues might discuss over lunch.
It is not unpleasant. It is simply… fragile.
An hour passes like this.
Then Connor sets down his fork and looks directly at me. The shift in his posture is subtle but unmistakable. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
He studies my face for a moment before continuing. “Do you blame me for your wife’s death?”
For a moment, I am certain I must have misheard him.
Connor’s question lands on the table between us with the subtlety of a dropped weight.
I set my fork down carefully. “No.”
Connor watches me across the table, his expression unreadable. He has always been remarkably skilled at that particular trick—presenting a calm exterior while keeping whatever is happening inside his head locked firmly out of view.
