Cool air with the barest hint of summer warmth tickles my face through the open window. I watch the moving scenery, resisting nostalgia as we pass through Weston, Massachusetts. Idyllic streets, quaint shops, old-world charm, and not a Starbucks in sight.

It only takes a few minutes to pass through and before long, Alex navigates down a treelined drive toward the sprawling colonial giant we once called home. Slowing, he pulls around the central fountain, coming to a stop outside the stately, portico-shaded entrance.

The doors are open, my father standing on the threshold. Straight-backed, strong and tall at sixty-eight, he smiles and lifts a hand in welcome. As I gather my purse from the floor, Alex exits the car and rounds the hood. Father and son embrace tightly.

As I open my door, Alex says, “More and more grey up top, eh, Dad?”

Benedict—Bennie to his friends—chuckles. “Nona expressly forbid me from dying it. She says it looks distinguished.”

I walk toward the men. “She’s right. Hey, Dad.”

My father’s brown eyes scan my face, his expression a mixture of worry and relief. “Candace,” he says, opening his arms. I walk into them, awash in comfort and love. And yes, an old flare of resentment. “I’m so glad you’re here. Your room is ready for you.” Leaning back to hold me at arm’s length, he scans my face again. “How are you feeling?”

I roll my eyes. “Just tell me I look tired and get it over with.”

A soft smile lifts his lips. “You look tired.”

“Candace!” exclaims a delighted, accented voice. I look past my dad’s shoulder to see Nona Bellizzi rushing through the foyer. This time, the surge of warmth and love I feel is untainted. “Come, come, tesoro mio, give me love!”

I meet her halfway, letting her fold me into soft arms. She smells the way she always has, of French lavender, powder, and herbs. When she takes me by the face, her dark eyes roaming mine, I see white streaking her black hair and deeper creases fanning her eyes and mouth. She’s still—has always been—so beautiful to me.

“Ah, child,” she murmurs, eyes clouding with sadness. “It’s time to stop fighting.”

I shake my head in her gentle embrace. “I’m not… there’s no…” It’s pointless—I lose it, collapsing into her arms with great, heaving sobs.

“There, there,” she whispers, stroking my hair and back. Over my shoulder, she says, “Candace needs her nana. Alex, it’s wonderful to see you. Please take her bags to her room. Benedict, dinner is at six. Forgive Candace for not attending.”

Her firm, soft voice brooks no argument. I hear murmured assent from the men, then Nona leads me through the house, out the back door, and along a gravel pathway to the secondary residence that’s been hers for thirty years.

By the time she ushers me inside to the kitchen, my sobs have quieted to sniffles. She deposits me in a chair at the circular table and I drop my head onto my arms, breathing the familiar aromas of fresh sourdough and thyme.

A thunk on the table brings my head up to see a small shot glass brimming with clear liquid.

“Drink,” she orders.

I throw back the vodka, coughing a little, then smirk. “I guess this means you finally think I’m an adult?”

She smiles. “You’ll always be my little treasure. Now up you go, it’s time for bed.”

I frown at her. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”

She just stares at me, gaze steady and piercing, until I stand and follow her from the kitchen. With the alcohol buzzing in my empty stomach, I don’t notice where she leads me until I’m inside the room.

His room.

“Nana, I—”

“He hasn’t been here in months,” she says, with an undercurrent that makes me look sharply at her. But her expression reveals nothing of her thoughts. “The sheets are clean. Sleep.”

I sigh in defeat and cross to the bed, sitting heavily on the edge, as Nona draws the curtains. Without another word, she leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.

I look around the shadowed room, unchanged from Sebastian’s teenaged years. There isn’t much in the way of personal clutter—he’s always been a minimalist.

A baseball bat leans against the wall beside an empty desk. There are no posters on the wall, just framed art that Nona picked for him before he arrived from Italy. The only hint of personality is from the bookshelf, which is crammed top to bottom with a broad range of titles.

Standing, I walk to the small closet and open it. Before I’m fully aware of my intent, I lean forward, burying my face briefly in the sleeve of his letterman jacket. Several shirts and laundered pants hang on the nearly-bare bar, and the shelf above is empty but for a shoebox.

Glancing at the closed door, I give in to temptation, pulling down the box and returning to the bed. I sit, balancing it on my knees, and remove the lid. There isn't much within—a small stack of folded papers and photographs.

The papers are letters he wrote to Nona while away at school, his high school diploma, degrees from Harvard and NYU—all carelessly folded together. And the photographs…

Nona and fifteen-year-old Sebastian standing outside the guesthouse, smiling. The varsity baseball team. His senior class photograph.

The fourth image is of him, Alex, Deacon, and Charles in the backyard, arms draped over each other’s shoulders. They’re young, shirtless, and laughing. Studying the photo, I recall the weight of the camera in my hands. My mother’s laughter coming from somewhere behind me. My dad’s voice grumbling about cleaning up the mess from a broken window.

My thumb brushes across the photo before I put it back in the box. As I move to replace the lid, I see a final photograph resting facedown on the bottom. Pinching a corner, I lift up the picture, worn and creased from being carried in a wallet.

It’s me. Sixteen years old. My face is tilted up, washed in sunshine, and I’m smiling like the whole world is perfect.

Tingles cascade along my body, and a hand flies to my throat. My heart pounds hard against my ribs, but not in panic. Happiness? Hope? I’m not sure. Closing my eyes, I think shamefully of screaming at him in the hospital, of my callous, selfish words. And his face when I rejected him in front of Robert.

“We didn’t do anything wrong. It was right. So fucking right.” And it was. So right. “I want to make you happy. Will you let me try?”

A tear hits the photograph, then another, and I hastily put it in the box. Crossing the room, I shove it back onto the shelf and close the closet door, then rush to my purse and find my phone. I don’t think as I scroll through my contacts and find his name, then press Call.

When the third ring sounds, I jolt and almost hang up, but a second later he answers.

“Candace?”

I clear my throat. “Hi. Guess where I am?”

He pauses. “Alex told me. I’m glad.”

His voice is perfectly pitched to convey mild concern. It makes something inside me quake in desperation.

“Sebastian, I—”

A woman’s laughter, low and intimate, sounds on his end. That trembling place freezes over in a flash. My throat closes. I grip the phone hard enough that my knuckles crack.

No.

I’m sorry.

Please.

“It’s not really a good time,” he says. Distant. Polite. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

My voice shaking audibly, I blurt, “I didn’t mean what I said.”

There’s an unmistakable sound of sheets rustling as he stands. “Yes, you did.” His voice is low and fixed with iron. “You’ve always meant everything you’ve ever said to me, and I’m finally done listening. I’m tired of wanting… You know what? It’s not important.”

“Sebastian—” I fall silent as tears choke my voice.

I found the picture.

Don’t give up on me.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he says gently, firmly. “Whatever makes you happy. I have to go. Take care of yourself, Candace.”

He hangs up.

Slowly, I bring the phone down from my ear, then place it on the nightstand. Careful, precise movements so I don’t fall apart. Then I crawl across his bed, numbly seizing his pillow and burying my face in it. It doesn’t smell like him, though I wish it did.

God, how I wish it smelled like him.