The smallest twitch goes through his face.“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“Why?”
“There’s a Henry in my life too,” he says slowly. “He’s the reason I’m alive.”
I put my coffee down.
“I came up here as a favor to him. To his cousin, technically. There was a man we were looking for. Bank manager.The trail went cold before I arrived. He was already gone.”
He flexes his hand on the table.“I called Henry. Told him. Then Ididn’tgo back.”
“Why?”
He looks at me steadily, like a manwho’sdecided heisn’tgoing to lie to a woman whose brother shared a name with the man who saved him.
“Because Henry’s place is full of people. And down there, I’m—” He flexes his hand. “Down there, I’m a man someone has to manage. I’m a liability. Up here, I’m just—” He shakes his head. “I just am. For a while.”
“Yeah.” My eyes burn. “I get that.”
“What about you?”
Ipickup my coffee. Put it down.“My family loved me out of obligation.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just waits.
“I don’t have a tragedy,”I say. “I havea griefwithout a funeral. My mother is alive. My father is alive. My sister calls me twice a year to tell me howI’mwrong.”
“That’s a specific number.”
“Twice. Every year. Very consistent.”
His exhale is a small, soft sound.
I look at the table.“They lost Henry, and they reorganized themselves around the loss in a way thatdidn’tincludehim anddidn’tinclude me when I tried to bring him up.SoI”—I shrug—“Istopped bringing him up.”
Silence.
“Tess.”
“I’mfine. That part’s old.”I turn my mug in a slow circle.“Theaunt thingis newer.Aunt Rosa was my mom’s older sister. The black sheep. I hadn’tseen her since I was nine.”
“Is she…”
“She died eighteen months ago.”I clear my throat.“She left me a falling-down cabin in Colorado. And a typed letter.”
He’s very still.
“It said—”My voice does something Idon’twant itto do. Ipushthrough it. “‘This place was a comfort to me when I had no one. May it be the same for you.’”
“Christ.”
“Yeah.”I wipe my cheek.“She knew. Somehow. Idon’tknow how, but she knew.”
“Tess.”
