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I stand up and head toward the kitchen to finish her breakfast. “Good morning, how are you feeling today?”

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

I pause with the refrigerator door open, leaning back slightly to peer at her. Not able to help myself, I slip into our normal banter.

“I live here, have the paperwork to prove it, too,” I quip over my shoulder, going back to gather ingredients.

“You know what I mean. Shouldn’t you be at work?” The bitterness in her tone can’t be missed, and I don’t blame her.

“Going in a little later today. I wanted to make sure you were all set.” I ready the ingredients to finish her breakfast before she can sprint away.

“I guess that’s a perk of being so close to the partners.” My back tenses at her words. I want to jump in, explain, defend myself. Instead, I force myself to exhale, choosing not to engage right now.

“Sit,” I insist, pointing to the peninsula.

“No, I’m heading out. Becca texted me. Her and Sam will be here soon,” she says, angling her body toward the door.

“You have nothing to eat at your house, and you need your strength. Besides”—I set the plate down on the counter—“You can’t turn down your favorite breakfast.”

Setting the bagel in front of her without ceremony, I know it will be hard to resist. Everything bagel with cream cheese, evenly spread to the edges. The lox is the fancy kind, layered correctly with capers and a lemon wedge on the side.

She looks at the meal. Looks at me. Looks at the meal again—and sets her crutches down, taking a seat like she’s decided food wins this round.

Her hand goes toward where a coffee cup would be before I’ve even set one down. I turn around fast, closing the gap before she notices it wasn’t there. Firing up the overpriced machinery, I begin making a new drink I researched last night.

“What’s that smell? It’s not quite espresso … It’s something almost wintery,” she questions between mouthfuls.

I set the mug down in front of her. Dark, slightly frothy, the color of good chocolate. She picks it up without looking, still working through the bagel, and takes a sip. The new taste registers a half second later. Peppermint.

Every muscle in her locks. She freezes with the cup halfway back to the counter, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, somewhere past my shoulder. I say her name once. She doesn’t answer right away. She sets the mug down like it might go off.

“Phoenix,” I ask, concerned.

“Don’t.” It is barely louder than a whisper.

“Do you not like it? It’s peppermint cacao. I got it to help with the headaches. The menthol⁠—”

“I know what peppermint does for headaches.” Her voice comes out like quiet steel. “You told me all about peppermint. You gave me the oil your mom made for you, always making sure I had it on hand, refilling it without me asking. “

The kitchen falls into a glacial silence as we stare at each other.

“And you gave it to her,” she affirms. It isn’t a question. We have been here before, but one of us never got to explain.

“Look, Sugar, there is context you don’t have,” I start cautiously. “There is still—Phoenix, there are things about the investigation, about Cassandra, about why I⁠—”

“I have all the context I need,” she deadpans.

“You don’t.” My voice comes out sterner than I mean, placing my hands firmly on the countertop.

It is the first time I have given her any sort of pushback, which seems to make her pause.

“Look, I need you to hear me. It doesn’t have to be right now, not if you’re not ready. But before you decide what this was—” I stop, shutting my eyes tight for a second, not wanting to imagine the worst. Opening them again, I implore her to listen. “Before you decide what, or who, I am. There is a lot you still don’t know. And you deserve to.”

I’ll wait as long as it takes, but not being able to tell her the truth is eating me up. Not only for forgiveness, but for her peace of mind. To stop any spiraling she might be doing. She looks at me a moment longer and gives me a nod. A truck door slams in the driveway; Sam and Becca have arrived. I watch her head toward the door, hating the space between us that keeps growing. The truck door slams again and I hear Sam’s voice in the driveway. I stand in the kitchen for a moment after she’s gone, staring at the mug she set down so carefully.

The short drive from Phoenix’s duplex to the office creates a hollowness in my center that only deepens the farther I go. I used to enjoy coming to this place, if only for the possibility of glimpses of her throughout the day. Now I force myself back here. I have unfinished business, and the longer it drags on, the larger the canyon between Phoenix and me will be.

I pull into my spot, shut off the engine, and get the mask into place. Authentic enough that people want you around. Guarded enough that nothing slips.