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Maggie searched her mind for the right thing to say but nothing appeared; she was disembodied, observing this conversation from another plane, hollow and clinical.

“It’s fine,” he said, swirling the gin. “It’s for the best.”

“Bridgers.”

He shrugged. “Long time coming, probably.”

“Matthew.”

The gin tipped onto his leg, creeping into the wool, and he dropped his head into his hands. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, his voice still monotone. “I don’t know what to do.”

Maggie drew her legs up onto the sofa, curling into her brother. “I don’t, either.” She pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I love you.”

Bridgers released a muffled sob. “I love you too, dove. The thing is, that doesn’t seem to make a bit of difference.”

Chapter

Twenty-One

“And you don’t know where he is?”

Maggie slammed her fist into a shank of some sort—pork? Possibly some part of a cow?—and tried to not scream. “He’s at the inn. I don’t know how long he’ll be there. I don’t know anything.” She stared down the meat, daring it to contradict her.

Theo slid behind her, gently removing the offending chunk and gingerly placing it in a pot. “Thank you for tenderizing that chuck,” he said. “You’re very efficient.”

“I’ve never seen Bridgers like this,” she said, moving aside to let Theo wash potatoes in the basin. “He’s never been this low before. He doesn’t even seem sad, just … lost.” He nodded sympathetically as he silently drew out a knife to peel the potatoes. Lou had told him about Tom leaving, so he had come around the apartment and pestered her to come to dinner until she agreed. Food was a language Theo used instead of words, comforting the people he cared about with quiet nourishment. I’m sorry you’re troubled, he was saying. Let me take care of you for a bit.

“How long have they lived together?” he asked, moving around the kitchen with a fluidity she found oddly peaceful. Theo in town, Theo in his kitchen: the same song in a different key.

“Twelve years. Before they met me.” It still felt odd to be doling out truths to someone, but she had laid herself bare before Theo so it would feel even stranger to continue pretending she was something that she wasn’t. She was tired of not being honest with him. It felt wrong, like a splinter she couldn’t remove.

“That’s a long time,” he said, humming to himself. “Surely it isn’t unusual to have some bumps along the way after a decade.”

“Most likely not,” she agreed, “but neither of them has ever left before.” She leaned against the counter with a sigh. “It makes me sick to my stomach. Not really,” she added at his panicked look. He glanced down at the food he was preparing. “Just, it’s upsetting.”

He clucked his tongue. “I can tell. Sit down, you’re hovering.”

Maggie plopped onto a chair, poking at the glass of water he had poured for her. “I want to shriek at Tom. I wish I knew what to do to help.”

“I don’t think it’s your responsibility to help, love.”

Theo froze. Maggie froze. Time itself seemed to freeze. The word had dropped onto the table in front of her, burned into the wood, and she swallowed. “You’re sure I can’t help with anything?”

“Just stay there and entertain me.” He put a carrot on the table in front of her. “Here, peel this.”

“I don’t have a paring knife.”

“You’re not much of a problem-solver, are you?”

She stood, crossing her arms. “I did not come here to be abused.”

“You came here to be fed.” He dumped the potatoes into a pot. “And fed you shall be.”

When she didn’t respond, Theo turned and looked at her. His face softened, and he held his arms open. “Come here.”

Being held by him was becoming Maggie’s new favorite thing, and she slid her arms around his waist, resting her head against his shoulder. His grip was tight, and he kissed her forehead. “It’s been a lot of change for you, hasn’t it? Moving here, taking up this new profession, Tom and Bridgers fighting.” He nuzzled her hair, and Maggie wanted to whimper. “At least you don’t have to perform anymore. That must be a relief.”

“Hmm?” She looked up at him, taking a moment to enjoy his blue eyes and secret dimple.