As if I have entered a time machine, I step off Holt’s jet only to end up in a small, exclusive elevator a few hours later. The ornate box whizzes us upward to a penthouse apartment in the sky.

But this apartment is nothing like the one in New Haven. Starting with the view. A river sparkles below with the reflection of neon lights from the cityscape.

Holt’s Little Rock penthouse is understated. The living space is huge, but the walls are smooth and eggshell white without any art deco detailing or even a hint of crown molding. The dark wood floors are tastefully covered by silver-toned rugs only a few shades lighter than the modern slate gray furniture distributed throughout the front room. Also, this apartment doesn’t smell like a beer distillery and a weed dispensary decided to hook up. In fact, if someone were to ask me what fall smells like, I might point to the crisp air gently blowing through a partially open window in the living room.

“Your place is very nice,” I tell Holt for reasons that go way beyond being polite.

“Thank you,” he replies, coming to stand next to me by the room’s huge floor-to-ceiling picture window. “These days, I travel to Arkansas more than I used to, so I am glad I chose this place back when I was a junior executive. Once my CEO position becomes official, I’ll most likely buy a place downriver where I can stay with my family. Or, I might end up at Johnson Ranch. That’s where my father lives. We’ll see.”

And by “we’ll,” he clearly means he and whoever he chooses to grow his family with. Someone who isn’t me, I remind myself.

And maybe that’s why I ask, “Are you still afraid of turning into your father?”

Holt stiffens, and I wonder if he doesn’t remember our conversation from all those years ago. But he says, “Being my father isn’t so bad. It means I won’t get hurt. Won’t get too emotional. Like my mom. Or Wes.”

“Is Wes like your mom?” I ask.

Another pause. This time it is so long, I wonder if he is going to answer. But he does eventually. “Yeah, yeah he is. He doesn’t look that much like her, but his ‘happy one moment, raging the next’ thing? That’s Mom, for sure.”

“Is that why—?” I stop halfway through the question realizing I am dangerously close to breaking the cardinal rule of childcare workers everywhere. Never comment on how a parent is doing his or her job.

But Holt insists. “Is that why what?” he asks.

I clamp my lips tightly, not wanting to answer. Then again, this is one of the few areas where I can be completely honest with him. “Well, I notice you don’t spend much time with Wes. I know you were raised in much the same fashion. With nannies, a distant father, and an unreliable mother. But Wes…he’s in a difficult place right now, and I think he needs more time with you than you have been giving him.”

Holt blinks as if I reached over and slapped him. “You expect me to drop everything at work? Put a multibillion-dollar corporation on hold so I can dispense hugs and tell my son I know he’s doing the best he can or some shit like that?”

“No, Holt,” I answer with more patience than I feel. “It does not have to be an either/or situation. You can be there for your son without losing your business.”

“How?” he asks, biting out the word.

My hackles rise…only to lower right back down when I see his hunched shoulders and pressed lips. It is a familiar expression. One I have seen on Wes and Barron—when they are feeling frustrated or embarrassed and on the verge of shutting down because they don’t know how to navigate their feelings…

“Oh, you are serious!” I say out loud.

“If by serious you mean not trying to be a dick to my son like my father was to me, then yeah,” he answers, tight-jawed. “I’m dead serious.”

My heart melts because, “Wanting to be better is the first—really, the most important--step, Holt. You do not have to become the perfect parent overnight. In fact, I do not believe such a parent exists. But it is possible for you to become the parent your son needs you to be. Just start by talking to him about his mother’s death.”

Holt grimaces. “Actually... her death wasn’t nearly as hard on me as it was on him. Tish and I—we weren’t exactly happy. In fact, we were never happy, but it was worse after Wes was born. I think motherhood wasn’t what Tish expected…or marriage. I was remote…I worked too much. She started drinking more. Too much. Once, she told me she was trying to wait out the ten-year clause on our pre-nup, but she couldn’t take it anymore. She was drunk at the time, but still…”

Holt’s eyes shift back to the river as he trails off. I think about how I started to feel about the things he said to me when he was drunk or high or both over the course of our relationship. That there was some level of truth to everything he said. That he truly did love me. That he truly could not live without me. That I really was the best thing that had ever happened to him. That he really did want to marry me and be with me forever.

But this isn’t about Holt and me. It’s about Holt and his son.

“Maybe you didn’t have a love relationship with her like Wes did. But her death was tragic and sudden, similar to what happened with your mother. You have more in common with Wes than you think.”

His lip twists downward, but I can tell he is really giving some thought to what I’ve said. “How did you handle this?” he eventually asks me. “How did you talk to Barron about your sister? About the death of his birth-mother?”

A sharp knock sounds at the front door before I can say anything.

Holt calls, “Come in,” over his shoulder.

Yahto, who arrived in Little Rock a few days before us to prepare the apartment and meet us at the airport, enters rolling our suitcases behind him.

“Put those in the master,” Holt says.

If Yahto has any questions about why Holt is sharing a room with the woman he all but forced on a plane to Connecticut back in the August, it doesn’t show on his large, square face. When he returns, he nods and says he will be in the penthouse lobby if we need anything.

“Give me a minute,” Holt says after Yahto leaves. “I’m going to change out of my suit.”

He disappears down a hallway that must lead to the bedroom. I almost follow, curious about the rest of the apartment. But then I think about what he said to me in his office. The way his eyes burned. “You’ll be sharing a room and a bed with me.”

On second thought, I decide to stay right where I am. Next to the beautiful view. Where it’s safe. For now.

Still, my heart jumps its tracks when Holt reappears a few minutes later. He has changed out of his usual dress suit into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Much like what he wore when we lived together the first time.

But he is so different now. His messy blond hair and unkempt beard are gone. And his formerly slender arms are roped with bulky muscle, hinting at a work-out schedule that must go well beyond the “wake, bake, drop down and do a few push-ups” one Holt did back in the day. He’s fit and healthy, with focused eyes that, according to him, will forevermore remain clear of the fog I remember so well.

Tell him, the guilt pleads with me. You have to tell him! All the secrets. Right now.

“You hungry yet?” he asks.

I swallow, my heart swinging back and forth like a pendulum before I finally answer with a simple, “Yes.”