"Visit three," Renée said. "The princess night."
He didn't lift his head right away. When he did, his eyes were wet, and she felt something in her chest pull hard, a reflex, the old instinct to go to him when he was hurting, and she clamped down on it, held it still.
"That was the first week of December," he said. "She texted that it was her birthday. That she'd forgotten it was even her birthday till her brother sent her a message from Phoenix. She was forty-two and she was alone in her dead mother's kitchen watching her father die. She said she was going to a work thing online, some holiday party with her Minneapolis office, and she'd gotten all dressed up for it like an idiot, and then she just couldn't log on. She asked if she could come have one drink with an old friend on her birthday. One drink."
"And you said yes."
"I said yes."
"In the silver cardigan. With the heels."
"She was dressed up for the party." He gestured helplessly at the coffee table, at the shoe standing there like an accusation. "She brought a bottle of wine. We had a glass. Then another one. And we were talking, and laughing, about stupid stuff, about Mr. Pruitt the chemistry teacher, and it felt—" He stopped himself.
"Say it."
"It felt like being a kid. Like being nobody's dad and nobody's anything. Just—" He swallowed hard. "She took her shoes off because her feet hurt. She took off the cardigan because the fire was going and it was hot. The bracelet kept catching on the sweater so she took that off too. And we were sitting there and she put her head on my shoulder and I let her. And then she kissed me."
The tree hummed. Somewhere in the house the refrigerator kicked on.
"And you kissed her back," Renée said. It was not a question.