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I nod again, unable to utter a single word, not even a sound. I’m so overwhelmed that I don’t know what to say or do, even though I prepared for this. All last week, I went over what I wanted to say to them. But now that I’m here, my head is completely empty.

“Shall we sit down?” Clark asks, breaking the silence between us, which is becoming more unbearable by the second. He points to the sofa and two wing chairs, and I sink into the cushions with relief. My legs feel so weak that they threaten to give way at any moment.

“Would you like something to drink?” Brittany is still standing in the doorway and makes no move to come closer.

I nod, even though I’m sure I won’t be able to get anything down. But it can’t hurt. My mouth is dry, and I also suspect she needs a moment to pull herself together. She disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Clark.

Everything is terrible. And it doesn’t get better when Brittany finally returns with a tray in her hands, holding three glasses and a carafe of lemon iced tea. She sets the tray on the low coffee table. Her hands are shaking as she fills the glasses.

Clark clears his throat. “How are you, Phoenix?”

“I’m . . . fine.” The words almost stick in my throat.

“How nice.” He smiles almost imperceptibly. Brittany sits down next to him on the sofa, her hands clasped together. They’re a team, that much is obvious.

“Yes, um . . . everything’s going well,” I say lamely. It’s such a lie, and I think we all know it.

“So you’re settling in at the school?”

I nod. “Not much has changed there.”

Except that I’m a different person now.

“That’s just how schools are.” Another slight smile.

“Exactly.”

Damn, how awkward can a conversation get? We’ve forgotten how to talk to each other. I guess that can happen after four years of almost complete silence. I take a sip, and the iced tea tastes just like it used to. Brittany always made it herself. I only drank it for Isabel’s sake—too much sugar for a ballet dancer. The memory makes me feel strange, and I quickly shake it off.

“How’s . . . Livy?” My fingers close so tightly around the glass that my knuckles turn white.

Livy.

I have no right to call her that, none at all, but Isabel always did. When she talked to our baby in her womb, she always called her Livy.

Clark and Brittany exchange a quick glance that makes my stomach tense.

“She’s doing really well.” It’s the first time Brittany has said anything since she returned to the living room. There’s something defensive in her voice that I can’t quite interpret, but I don’t need to. Livy is well. She’s alive and healthy.

She’s fine.

My eyes dart to one of the photos as I swallow hard against the tightness in my throat. “She’s growing up.”

“Of course. She’s a child,” Brittany replies sharply and then grimaces. “Sorry, that wasn’t nice. It’s just . . . difficult.”

I nod, because it’s difficult for all of us. Everything is difficult.

“Phoenix,” Clark says with a sigh, “why did you come back?”

He never asked me that question the few times we spoke on the phone. Not once. Maybe that’s progress. Just like the fact that they let me come here.

“I came back because of you,” I say honestly. “I came back for Olivia.”

Fear flashes in Brittany’s eyes. “Are you going to take her away from us? Phoenix, you can’t . . . she doesn’t even know you. No court in the world would let you—” She falls silent when Clark puts a hand on her arm.

I, on the other hand, feel cold, my pulse racing as adrenaline rushes through my body. “No, I don’t want to take her away from you.”

“You don’t?” Clark’s thick eyebrows rise, his gaze piercing mine.