Phoenix listens without interrupting. When I finish, he's quiet for a long moment.
"He thought I died," I say. "Sydney told him there were complications. That the baby didn't make it. He's believed that for twenty-six years."
Phoenix doesn’t move.
I crack my knuckles. "That's everything. That's all of it."
Then he says, "Did my father know?”
Notdoes he know.Did. Past tense.
"Yes," I say. "Olive told me. He's known for a long time."
Phoenix gets up from the table. He crosses to the window and stands with his back to me, hands in his pockets, looking out at the dark water. I've learned to read him in silhouette—the tension he carries in his neck, the jaw in profile. He's not calm. He's holding something under enough pressure that staying still requires everything he has.
He stands there for a long time. I don't fill the silence. I've learned that from Olive.
When he turns back around his face has changed. Not angry. His jaw is set, his eyes doing the thing they do when he's already three moves ahead and hasn't decided which one to make.
"James Dupree," he says. Not a question.
"Yes."
"He's been at my parents' table since I was twelve years old." He says it evenly, saying it like a man only now understanding what it means. "I have known that man my entire life."
"I know."
"My father's oldest friend." He looks at me. "And my father knew who you were. Before I brought you home."
His jaw tightens once. He controls it. Then he's still again.
"I know who he is." His voice is quiet. He looks at me for a long moment. The kitchen is going dim and neither of us has moved to turn on a lamp. "How long have you known."
"Since the BBQ. I was certain by that night."
"A week." He nods slowly, not an accusation. "You needed to understand it first."
"Yes."
He comes back to the table. Doesn't sit down. Instead, he stands with his hands on the back of the chair, looking down at the surface between us. His knuckles are white against the wood.
I reach across and put my hand over his. He turns his hand under mine and holds it. His grip is tight. He exhales once through his nose, slow and measured, and I feel the tension move up through his hand and into his arm.
"What did he say?" Phoenix asks. "James. At the café."
"That he'd follow my lead. That he wasn't going to ask anything from me." I pause. "He said he'd believed for twenty-six years that I didn’t make it."
His grip tightens fractionally.
"It didn't sound fake," I say.
Phoenix is quiet for a moment. "It wouldn't be," he says. "James has always been exactly what he looks like. That's the thing about him." He says it evenly, like a fact he's known for years.
"Phoenix." I wait until he looks at me. "I'm not telling you what to do with this. I'm just telling you."
He holds my gaze. "I know." He straightens and releases my hand. He moves to the window again, just needing the distance.
The room has gone dark. I haven't turned on the lights and neither has he. Outside the coastline lights are beginning to appear in both directions, small and steady, the sailing ships on the water moving so slowly they look fixed.
