“Maybe that should be your welcome-home meal,” I say. “Give your arteries at least one day off, okay?”

Probably I should encourage my father to take up lean chicken and fish, lots of greens, and no more alcohol. The thing is, that will never happen. Dad without burgers and barbecue shrimp and po’boys is . . . not Dad. He’s never going to order sparkling water instead of a Sazerac. He truly would rather live large and die at sixty-five than count calories all the way to ninety. That’s not what I want for him, but he wouldn’t listen to me.

Mom brushes my father’s graying hair away from his face. “You look a sight. I should’ve brought you a comb.”

“Nobody cares what I look like in the hospital, Renee.” But he pats her hand fondly. Whatever deficiencies Mom has as a parent, she makes up for as a wife; my dad has always been devoted to her, to the point that he’s blinded to her faults—still, after thirty-two years of marriage.

Mom and Chloe decided that Libby could manage a visit, which makes me happy. Libby piles up in the hospital bed with Dad and shows him her new sticker book, which makes him laugh. Just the sight of her in his arms helps me relax. For once, it seems like things are going to turn out okay.

That night, everyone else in my family wants to rest, which means I have a good excuse to leave and spend some time only with Jonah. Thankfully some of my clothes still linger in the back of my closet, so I’m able to change into a fresh outfit, a sheath dress and cardigan that can go anywhere.

Forget finding a table at a fine-dining restaurant at the last minute on a Saturday night, but New Orleans is even richer in cuisine options than Austin. I take him to one of my favorite neighborhood haunts, a little place with tile floors and cane-backed chairs that serves the kind of dishes you can’t find anywhere outside Louisiana—crawfish etouffee, shrimp creole. The clatter of silverware and chatter of other patrons echoes slightly off the tile, but I don’t mind the noise. It gives us a paradoxical privacy.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather be at home,” Jonah says. It’s not a question. I shake my head, and he adds, “You don’t get along with your sister and her husband.”

Despite everything, I laugh. “Small talk isn’t your wheelhouse.”

“Never saw the point.” Some of the steel has returned to his voice. “We might as well tell the truth. How else do we get started?”

We’re supposed to open up to each other. Jonah’s method is about as subtle as dynamiting a locked safe—but he’s right. For two people as skilled in silence as we are, only the direct approach will do. “No,” I say. “I don’t get along with them.”

“Why not?”

The truth hangs above me, heavy and sharp, a Sword of Damocles. I’m not ready for that, and even if I were, I wouldn’t blurt it out in a restaurant. So I start with the pettier reasons. “They’re—status obsessed. Shallow.” I have to smile. “You saw how quickly they started bragging when you came in.”

“I noticed,” he says dryly.

“You shut that down pretty fast, by the way. Good job.”

Jonah shrugs and smiles, but he sticks to the subject. “That’s not the only reason you don’t get along with them, though. You’re not a judgmental person. You wouldn’t react to that on its own.”

It takes me a minute to decide how to answer. Telling the full truth remains impossible, but I don’t want to lie. “Anthony’s a . . . horrible human being,” I finally say. “He wasn’t faithful to Chloe when they dated in college.”

The only proof I have of that is what he did to me. Equating my rape with sex, suggesting even momentarily that infidelity is Anthony’s worst crime—it kills me a little inside.

A place to begin, I remind myself. It’s only a place to begin.

I continue, “Right before they got married, I told Chloe what kind of man she was marrying. She didn’t believe me. Ever since then, she’s thought I was a liar, or jealous of her, or just plain crazy—I don’t know. Anthony has fed her resentment, of course. Mom took Chloe’s side.”

“That’s not easy,” Jonah says. I can tell he senses there’s more, but maybe he thinks he’s pushed enough for now. “Were you two ever close?”

“When I was little, I thought Chloe hung the moon.” To my surprise, I have to swallow a lump in my throat. “She was so grown-up, and glamorous. So beautiful. You saw for yourself.”

“I didn’t notice.”

Most guys would be flattering me. Jonah means it.

He hesitates, as if he doesn’t know what to say next, but finally comes out with, “Sibling relationships are tough. I get along with my sisters and my brother, but—let’s call it a negotiated peace.”

Jonah knows I read the article online; there’s no point in pretending I don’t know a few basic facts about his family. “I thought you only had one sister.”

“Maddox and Elise are technically my stepfather’s children, but he married my mother when I was very young. Elise and I barely remember life without each other. Maddox and my biological sister, Rebecca, are even younger—as far as they’re concerned, there was never a time when we weren’t a family. We all consider ourselves brothers and sisters, close as blood, full stop.”

That sounds like loyalty. Like love. “Then what’s the negotiation about?”

He stares out the window at the busy street, unwilling or unable to meet my eyes. “As you know—as half the damned country knows—our parents’ relationship is troubled in the extreme. My mother isn’t well. The four of us don’t agree on how to handle that. However, we all understand there’s no easy answer.”

“It’s good that you don’t blame each other,” I say softly. “Chloe and I do, sometimes. I wish we didn’t.”

Jonah nods and turns back to me. “Maybe we get better at this over time.”

“Knowing people? Or loving them?”

“Both.” His hand covers mine, and we fall into a comfortable silence.

Yet I cannot forget how much more I have to tell. How many secrets I still keep. Even today, when Jonah has traveled here to stand by me—when we’ve agreed to learn how to love each other—I still can’t bring myself to tell him the truth.

My secrecy grows heavier during the evening. Darkens.

Changes shape.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather sleep at home?” Jonah asks as I park my car in front of the B&B.

“No. I’d rather be with you.”

He opens the front door with a heavy brass key, and we climb the carpeted stairs quickly, hoping not to attract attention from either the hosts or other guests. Neither of us feels like making small talk about the city for another thirty minutes.

The bedroom here is done in grand style—an enormous four-poster bed carved out of wood polished until it gleams, a marble-fronted fireplace, and an armoire so tall it nearly reaches the twelve-foot ceiling. Lace curtains cover the window, so we’re hidden away from the rest of the world. Good.

Jonah puts my bag beside the armoire. “You didn’t have this much stuff last night. Did you find some things at home?”

I nod absently as I step out of my shoes. Then I slowly pull off my cardigan and unzip my dress, which crumples to the floor. As soon as it’s off, I look Jonah straight in the eye as I begin to unhook my bra.

He takes two steps toward me and kisses me, long and deep. As I shrug my bra off my arms, his hands find my breasts. His touch is gentle. Too gentle.

“We would have to be quiet,” I whisper against his lips. “But we can still play.”

Jonah goes still. At first I think he’s already there with me, preparing to unleash his darker side. Then I recognize the confusion in his gray eyes . . . the hurt.

Tonight he didn’t want to play. He wanted to make love.

I remember how he was in Scotland, the strange distance between us when I insisted on bringing my fantasy into our bed there. He obliged me, even though I could tell he wanted something else from me. Jonah doesn’t need this fantasy the way I do.