Noah looked at me.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me all of it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you had enough pain.”
Diane gave a sharp, disapproving sound.
“There. He decides what you can handle.”
I turned on her.
“He sat in a hospital bed asking why his mother had not called. I was not going to answer with every cruel thing you ever said.”
“You always make yourself the hero.”
“No,” Noah said.
His voice had gone lower.
Diane looked at him.
“He doesn’t.”
Her expression faltered.
“I’m the one who doesn’t remember. That doesn’t make him dishonest.”
“I didn’t come to fight.”
“Why did you come?”
“I told you.”
“No. You said you came to see me.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“Why now?”
Silence spread across the table.
From the workshop came the low cycling hum of the ventilation system. Rain touched the metal roof in soft, irregular taps.
Diane picked at one edge of her handbag.
“I saw the newspaper.”
My entire body became cold.
Noah’s eye closed briefly.
