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Charles had noticed. He walked to the door, and Grayson’s heart quickened with hope, the jealousy already fading. This was the moment. They would welcome him in, and everything would be okay.

Until Charles opened the door a crack, saying, “Sorry, kid, we’re closed.”

The door shut again. Charles walked away.

Grayson’s own grandfather hadn’t recognized him. He was hardly paying attention; it was clear he was distracted and wanted to get back to Sophie and the girl.

But still.

What little of Grayson’s heart was left broke irreparably.

It had gutted him then, and it gutted him now to hear Charles tell Lucy that she was all he had.

Did these past months mean nothing? Did he really mean nothing? Was he so easily forgotten? Grayson had spent so many years wondering if he even existed if there was no one in the world to care for him, no one to bat an eye if he disappeared.

Now it really did feel like he didn’t exist.

Like he never had.

He headed back to the main area of the ground floor. In the kitchen, he saw a cake box with what looked to be an apple cake inside. He wondered what that was for when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Where were you?” Lucy said. Her voice was sharp, disappointed somehow. He turned to find that her expression was livid.

But why was she angry?

She was the one who had stolen his grandfather from him. She was the one who had written over his existence. From the very beginning.

Grayson had thought it didn’t matter as long as things were different now, but clearly, nothing had changed.

Suddenly, the despair in Grayson’s chest snapped into anger.

“Sorry to interrupt such a cozy scene,” Grayson said, voice harsh. Her brows furrowed, face contorting. She was thrown off by his tone.

“What the fuck, Grayson,” she seethed. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. “I texted you like thirty times.”

Confusion spread through him. Surely, she wasn’t this upset that he hadn’t replied for a few hours.

“You only texted three times,” he said, which only made her angrier.

She shook her head in disgust. The gesture knifed through him; he was used to her tenderness now. This anger was too reminiscent of the first few days he’d been there, when she had hated him so fully.

Standing in front of him, she was poised for battle, layers of armor going up. “I don’t know what I expected,” she scoffed, sounding so unlike his Lucy, his Luce. “It’s my own fault.”

His heart pounded with panic. He was struggling to keep up with what was going on. He thought they were past this, but she seemed so defensive.

Defensive of Charles. But why? Had something happened while he was gone?

But even if it had, why was she angry with him, acting as if he didn’t care about Charles? Didn’t she know that he loved Charles, too?

After all this time, didn’t she know?

Hadn’t she seen Grayson trying to build a relationship with Charles? Didn’t she know that Grayson craved this last connection? Didn’t she know that Grayson wanted this—needed this?

Didn’t she know him?

“You weren’t here,” she snapped. “And that shouldn’t have surprised me because of course, of fucking course you weren’t. Old habits die hard, huh? You’ve never been here, it’s our fault for expecting you to be.”

The answer was no. She didn’t know him. Because he was unknowable.