“It wasn’t your fault that Aoifa died,” I continue. “Not in any capacity.”
The name still carries a strange weight even after all these years. Aoifa. My wife. A woman who possessed more patience and grace than I deserved.
Connor’s gaze shifts briefly to the wineglass in front of him. “That’s not exactly how the math works.”
I lean back slightly in my chair. “The mathematics of tragedy are rarely accurate.”
“That’s a very poetic way to avoid the point.” There’s no accusation in his voice. Only a quiet insistence.
So I give him the truth. “If I had not had an affair with your mother,” I say evenly, “then you would not exist. Aoifa would not have been on the phone with me that afternoon…”
The memory surfaces with uncomfortable clarity.
Traffic. The sound of her voice through the car speakers. Her broken tone.“You slept with someone else?”
The words choked out of me.“I’m so sorry?—”
And then, nothing.
I clear my throat to bring myself to the present moment. “She ran a stop sign,” I say quietly. “A semitruck hit the driver’s side door. It was an auto collision. I certainly don’t blame someone who was barely formed for that. You weren’t driving either vehicle.” I try for mirth with that last line, but neither of us feel it.
Connor’s fingers turn the stem of his wineglass slowly. “You’ve never blamed me?”
“Never.” That part requires no effort whatsoever. “If blame is required for the situation, it rests with me. I was the one who made the decisions that led to that moment.”
Connor’s gaze lifts again, studying my face with the same careful scrutiny he used earlier. “I always assumed you did.”
“I’m not sure why you would assume that.”
He shrugs slightly, the movement casual enough that it might pass for indifference if one weren’t paying attention. “People blame the nearest thing.”
“Perhaps,” I concede. “But you were not the nearest thing.”
Connor’s mouth twitches faintly, as though he’s suppressing some reaction he has decided not to express. I take a sip of wine and watch him across the table. Time with Connor feels like playing a game of chess with invisible pieces.
There is something else beneath the question he asked earlier. A tension that has nothing to do with my feelings toward him, and rather more to do with his feelings toward himself.
“Have you blamed yourself?” I ask.
Connor’s eyes flick up immediately. “No.”
The answer arrives a little too quickly.
It’s not the word itself that gives him away, but the timing. Anyone who has spent enough years speaking with patients learns to recognize the small signals that accompany an unconvincing answer. The hesitation that appears half a second too late. The tone that shifts slightly out of alignment with the words.
Connor’s denial carries the distinct scent of bullshit. I don’t call him on it.
Whatever fragile structure we have managed to assemble this evening would not survive that particular confrontation. It has taken us nearly an hour to reach the point where he’s asking difficult questions at all. Disrupting that progress would be… counterproductive.
Still, the realization sits quietly in the back of my mind. Perhaps that is why Connor has always kept his distance. Guilt has a remarkable ability to sour relationships before they even begin.
Connor sets his glass down and studies me again. “So why the dinner invitation?”
The question is direct enough to be refreshing. “I wanted to spend time with my son.”
“That’s the official answer.”
“And the unofficial one?”
