Page 153 of Suite 7

He shows me.

An Instagram notification. Sloane’s profile.

I open my own phone. Find the photo before I can stop myself.

It’s the beach picture. Her and me, two summers ago, her birthday weekend. Three days of swimming and bad food and talking about everything. We’re both laughing, genuinely, the kind you can’t manufacture, arms around each other, sun in our hair.

The caption is the photo. No words. No hashtags. Nothing.

Sloane, who never wastes language, with nothing left to say.

I set the phone face-down on my knee.

The hours pass. We don’t eat. Don’t talk much. The TV plays something neither of us watches. The light in the apartment shifts from afternoon to evening, the city carrying on outside the glass, indifferent.

The intercom buzzes at seven.

Kane answers. “Marcel.”

A minute later the elevator opens.

Marcel steps out in jeans and a jacket.

“Kitchen,” he says. Not a request.

We follow him. Sit at the table. He leans against the counter with his arms crossed and for a moment nobody says anything.

“Sloane called me,” he says. “She was crying so hard she couldn’t get the words out. It took me twenty minutes to understand what she was saying.” He pauses. “Twenty minutes of her trying to explain what her brother and her best friend had done to her.”

“Marcel—” Kane starts.

“No.” Just the one word. Kane closes his mouth.

“Do you remember what I said to you?” Marcel looks directly at Kane. “At Hannigan’s.”

A muscle works in Kane’s jaw. “You said to tell her.”

“I said the longer you waited, the worse it would get. I said there was no right moment, just truth and cowardice.” Marcel’s eyes don’t move from his face. “You chose cowardice. For six weeks. Every single day.”

Kane doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t argue either.

“Do you know what she said when she finally calmed down?” Marcel doesn’t wait for an answer. “She said she feels stupid. She said everyone knew except her. She said she must have looked ridiculous — going on about Lisa to Vera, planning Kane’s future, being so happy about it.” His voice tightens. “She said the worst part wasn’t even that. The worst part was that she asked. She looked Vera in the eyes and asked and was told no. She gave you the chance to end it cleanly and you didn’t take it.”

Kane stands. His chair scrapes back. “I need to go over there⁠—”

“Sit down.”

“Marcel—”

“Sit down, Kane.” Marcel moves between him and the elevator. “She told you not to contact her. If you go over there right now, you’re not going for her. You’re going for yourself. To feel less guilty. To manage your own pain by trying to resolve hers before she’s ready.” He holds Kane’s gaze. “That’s a different kind of making it about you.”

Kane stands there for a long moment. His hands open and close at his sides.

Then he sits back down.

“When she’s ready, and she will be, here’s what you do. You don’t explain. You don’t give context. You lead with acknowledgment.” He looks between us. “I’m sorry I made you feel like a fool. I’m sorry I lied to your face. I’m sorry that when you asked me directly, I looked at you and said no. That’s it. No excuses attached. No but at the end. Just genuine remorse for what you actually did to her.”

“And then?” I ask.