Vanessa left without another word.
Once we were alone, Derek said, "I don't know how many apologies a person's allowed before it gets selfish."
"Fewer than people think."
A small, sad smile. "That sounds like you."
"It sounds like someone I had to become."
He didn't argue. "I remember the first time you told me about your mother. Old apartment, the radiator making that awful noise. You said she used to hum when she read. You cried that night, and I made terrible pancakes at midnight because I didn't know what else to do."
"They were basically glue," I said.
"With blueberries."
He laughed, and it faded fast. "I lost that version of myself."
"No," I said. "You neglected him."
---
Walter was waiting near the private elevators when I stepped out. "The car's ready," he said. "I thought we'd go home."
Not the penthouse. Home — the graystone on Astor Street, ivy on the brick, a library that always smelled like cedar and lemon oil, the house I'd avoided for years because it held too many ghosts.
