After the cake, my sister turned to my uncle and said, "Tell us a story."

Uncle Liam was a storyteller, but most days he refused to indulge Susie's voracious appetite. She always asked for a story on her birthday; I'd never thought to ask for one on mine.

Liam glanced at me from his seat in his armchair, his big feet propped up on the coffee table. There was a hole in the toe in one of his socks. It was late—the sun was down. Susie was curled up on the couch, her feet in Billy's lap. I balanced my plate, perched on the arm of an empty chair.

"A true story, or a tale?" Liam's voice was quiet.

I nodded at Susie, letting her choose. Her eyes lit up. "A true story. Tell us something true."

I smiled, "As true as you can make it." Liam nodded his head thoughtfully. The silence stretched out. Billy lay his head back on the couch, pretending to be asleep. Nobody moved.

"When you were born," Liam said, turning his eyes on me, "it was during one of the largest thunderstorms I'd ever seen. I've been to the Caribbean, and I've seen some storms out West, too, but I'd never seen anything like this one. Mid summer, hot as hell, wind high. I got to the hospital later than I wanted to. Had to drive around trees on the road. Almost got my windshield smashed by a branch or two."

Susie snuggled further down into her seat. Billy sat perfectly still. If he was breathing, I couldn't tell.

"It was raining so hard that the water flooded into the parking garage. My shoes were soaked to the ankles when I made it upstairs to find your brother sitting perfectly still in the waiting room, eyes wide open. Unblinking. Just, focused. Your dad was a mess next to him. Twitching, dozing off, jumping up and pacing. But Billy jus sat there and waited patiently. Three years old. The nurses had never seen anything like it.

"When you were born you screamed so loud and so strong that we thought something was wrong. We thought you were hurt, or in danger. So we piled into the room, your dad and me and this quiet, cool three-year-old Billy right behind us, and there you are shrieking and screaming and letting us all know you were born, this storm inside a hurricane."

I nodded, my eyes trained on the floor.

"I've lived longer than you three. Seen lots. Done lots. Some people probably have better track records for happiness, or at least not making bullshit mistakes their whole lives. But in my life, there have only been three perfect days. The day you were born, Flannery, that was one of them."

A small silence punctuated his last sentence. Billy let out a breath. I nodded again, not looking up.

Susie wriggled unhappily. "Tell another one?"

Liam smiled, standing up. "I'm all storied out now, honey pie. Maybe some other time." He took his plate into the kitchen, came out to kiss each of us on the forehead, and headed off to bed. None of us moved.

After Liam had closed the door, Susie said, "He never talks about Mom."

Neither Billy nor I answered.

"I mean, he went through a whole story about you being born and he never mentioned her. Not even once. It's not like you gave birth to yourself."

"Suze," Billy's voice was exhausted, "you need to let that go."

"Out of all of us here, I'd say I have the least I need to let go. You're all so, like, bitter, you can't even mention her damn name. Or talk like she existed, even."

I watched Susie's face, now bright with anger. We had never talked about this before, and suddenly I realized that it was something Susie and Billy had discussed many times before. Without me.

"There's a reason for that. You know what it is."

"She's an alcoholic, big deal. It's not like you and Liam don't drink. I don't see either one of you like, losing custody of me or whatever."

"You also don't see Mom trying to turn her life around."

"I don't see Mom at all!"

"You know why that is? Because she doesn't want to see us, that's why. Who even knows where she is." Billy's tone was just a shade shy of bitter. His eyes were still closed, his head was still back against the couch.

"Probably because you and Liam are such dicks to her." Susie said acidly. "Who'd want to hang around someone who judged them all the time?"

I caught my breath, quietly, but Susie heard it and turned to look at me. Her face, so hard with righteous indignation, barely changed. But there was a flicker of something across her face, and I wondered, not for the first time, what my face looked like to others.

"All three of you walk around like you survived something and you don't tell me anything," Susie stood up, straightening out her pajama pants. "I'm just supposed to never talk about things that make you uncomfortable, which by the way is a super long list." She picked up her plate and strode into the kitchen, then slammed the door to our room.

Billy held out his arms to me and I sat down with him, wrapped into as small a bundle as I could manage in the heat. We sat there a long time, not speaking. Then he kissed me on the forehead, in exactly the same spot that Uncle Liam had, and said, "Happy birthday, baby sister."

Tears escaped my eyes in spite of myself. All was quiet.

"She really doesn't know about Mom?" my voice was a whisper.

Billy whispered back, "She does. She just doesn't understand what it means." His hand came up to cup my head, and he rocked me back and forth, humming low in his chest. All around us the house breathed a small sigh, a release, as my brother and I sat together, unspeaking, unmoving.

All was quiet, and in spite of everything my life was beautiful.

I thought I'd never get used to summer in the city. At Mansfield there had been shade from the sun, a chance of a breeze, the promise of dipping my feet in the river. Here there was no escape but inside shops that were so full of people who were so angry with the weather that the escape was no escape at all. I still avoided crowds.

On a good day, the trip from Bunker Hill to Dorchester Center takes forty minutes. That day had not been a good day, and the bottom of my feet and the top of my head felt baked and tough. I dug out my water bottle for the fifth time since getting off the bus and guzzled down the last of the now-lukewarm water inside. I reached down to stuff the bottle back into my bag when a figure on the sidewalk caught my attention.

The sunlight that beat down on my head turned his hair into a thousand different colors, and his skin, freckled like mine, had taken on a pleasant, sun-kissed look. Three years had been kind to Henry Crawford—he looked taller, broader, better. Or maybe I'd turned him into something he hadn't been, whenever I thought about him.

He'd caught me out of the corner of his eye and now he was turned toward me, his hands in his pockets, waiting for me to approach. He was in front of my door. He'd sent me a card, too. How had he gotten my address? Had that, too, come from Ned's address book? Did Ned know Mary helped herself to his information?

I came within three paces of Henry and stopped, hands gripping my bulging bag. It was boiling hot, I was developing a rough sunburn, and I was in desperate need of a bathroom, but I had no interest in getting closer to him. Being close to him had proved dangerous in the past.

"Miss Price," he spoke as if he'd only seen me earlier that day. "Always a pleasure." He sketched a little half-bow, clearly amusing himself.

I squinted at him for a moment, considering. He looked much more adult—his face was still boyishly handsome, but there was something about him that was different. I wasn't quite sure yet what that something was.

I nodded at him. "Henry."

He smiled at me silently, his eyes on my face. He didn't say anything.

I did. "What are you doing here?"

He grinned, rocking back on his heels a little, bringing his hand to rub the back of his neck. Oh, yes, I could see it. I could see it immediately, what I hadn't understood before. He radiated confidence, the kind of self-deprecating confidence that was immediately recognizable as sex appeal. I would never have understood that as an eighteen-year-old.

"Well," he said, giving an appealing shrug of the shoulders, "I'm a few days late for your birthday, but I figured a visit wouldn't go amiss. Not when you're twenty-one. Plus I wanted to make sure you got my card."

"I did."

"Oh, good. Good. That old postal service is still going strong." He was watching me like I amused him. I was doing my best to be as boring as possible.

I watched him as he watched me. The smile never left his face, no matter how long we watched each other.

"Are you going to invite me in, or are you intending to melt to death in front of me?" He seemed cool enough, minus a bit of sweat on his forehead. I was made of sweat. I was a sweat monster.

"Why are you really here, Henry?"

"So you didn't get my card, then."

I sighed, at a loss. It was too hot to think at all, let alone clearly.

"I need to go inside." He watched me. I shook my head. "You might as well come in, too. Since you're here."

He nodded to me with utmost seriousness. "You honor me with your excitement."

I fought hard against another sigh, fumbling with my keys as I struggled to open the sticky front door. I was conscious, very conscious, of his presence behind me. Maybe three years weren't enough to make my body forget about him. Maybe it was simply that he still bothered me. Maybe I was just annoyed.

I dropped my bag on the bench just inside the door, opting to keep my shoes on. Something about talking to Henry barefoot made me nervous; I didn't want him to think I was comfortable with him being there.

I pointed at the table, still strewn with my books. "Sit down."

He pulled out a chair and relaxed into it, looking around the room. I shifted, uncomfortable. I'd never felt ashamed of my home before, but in the face of Henry's appraisal I was immediately aware of the dust, my socks on the floor, Billy's beer bottle from the other night on the coffee table. Cracks in the wall. The smell of bacon, slightly burnt, from this morning. Mansfield had never shown any such signs of life. The Grants' house had always been spotless. Here was different, and for a sweeping moment, it was shameful.

But no. This was my home, and I loved it, and he was invading. I shook my head as I went to the fridge for the water pitcher, more annoyed than I had been before. If he was going to pretend that he was in love with me, he was going to get the full picture of what that meant. Maybe polyester curtains and thrift store paintings would scare him off the way I hadn't been able to.

"Water?"

"Please. It's hot as hell outside." I handed him a glass, careful not to touch him, then turned to put the water back in the fridge. "Not in here, though," he continued, that smile still in his voice, "it's nice and cold in here."

This time I did sigh, turning my head to look at him. "I thought I'd given you my answer."

He tapped his fingers against the condensation, watching silently as drops fell on the old carpet. "You did," he said finally. "And believe me, I heard you. I just...well. Things changed for me. Not that, though." He raised his eyes to me. "I didn't want to bother you. You know, in your new life. I just needed to tell you. That's all." He cleared his throat, then lifted the glass to his lips, drinking half of the glass in one go.

I watched him, frowning. His face was still strange to me, as was his voice. He could have been a completely different person from the man I'd known three years ago, if I hadn't talked to him outside my house. That Henry had been the same old Henry. This one, this nervous one in the kitchen, speaking in short sentences with no trace of sarcasm, this was an entirely different Henry Crawford.

Perhaps.

"Henry, you haven't seen me or talked to me in three years."

"I know. So?"

"So how can you know you're in love with me?"

"Because I know."

"That's," I ran my left hand over my face, "that's not an answer."

"I don't know, I think it's pretty good," he sounded mulish, like a stubborn child.

"Henry…"

"I don't know, Flannery, okay? I mean, how does anyone know anything? Either you remember learning it or you just know it. Okay?"

My eyebrows shot up. "You called me Flannery." I couldn't keep the shock out of my voice.

"You called me Henry," now a ghost of his saucy grin was back.

"That's your name," I turned away to put my glass in the sink, itching with frustration at my own weakness. Why couldn't I have just thrown him out on his ear? Why hadn't I told him to leave in the first place?

"I know that. I wasn't aware you did. As for the Flannery thing, well, I didn't even know that was your real name until Ned told me. I thought Fawn was your real name that whole time. I wouldn't have called you Fawn if I'd known the truth." There was a mild reproach in his voice, but turned away from him I had no idea if that reproach was meant for me.

"I think we can both agree that the circumstances we met under were pretty messed up, right? I mean, old family manse in the middle of the wilderness in the middle of the summer? No one around, no rules, no adults, no information about each other? You just eighteen? There's a lot about that time that I still get shocked about now. Like, who the hell were we? What kind of fairytale did we think we were in? You know what I mean?"

I was staring at him now, open-mouthed. I had always assumed Henry had been perfectly comfortable in Mansfield. Not having lived with any other wealthy family, I had assumed that all educated, sophisticated people did the same things the Bertrams did.

Moreover, I had never expected Henry to be the voice of reason.

"And on top of it all, I spring this huge confession on you," he was shaking his head now, staring down at the glass in his hand. One foot was bouncing up and down to a slow, steady rhythm. "We barely knew each other then."

"We barely know each other now."

"True," he saluted me with a tip of his head and the rim of his glass. "Yes. But I feel like I understand you better. Understand where you were coming from. Where you come from in general, come to that. And the more I've been out in the world, like, doing things, seeing things, working with people, the more I've thought about you. Where you were. What you were doing. What you'd say if you could see me. What you would do if you were in my shoes. So I may not have a lot of clock hours with you personally, Flannery Price, but you have this way of sticking with a guy."

" 'Out in the world?'"

"I started working with groups that coordinate educational support for schools and after school programs. Started working with teachers and administrators, trying to help them help the kids. Did some volunteer hours over at some youth groups. This is all in New York," he clarified. "But it's all real. Probably wouldn't have done it if it weren't for you. I would have been too obsessed with, like, glamour, or whatever. And all that change, that's on you. In a good way, I promise."

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"What?" He seemed offended.

"Look, I'm sorry, it's just…I mean, the Henry Crawford I know would never say something like that without there being some kind of end game."

"Granted," his half-smile didn't manage to shake off his beleaguered expression, "but people change. You've definitely changed. Why not me, too?"

I had no answer to that, and anything I would have put into words would have been unfair. I had seen him act once. Not just once, as it turned out, but several times, and he had been excellent at it. But without any proof, how could I accuse him of acting again? He was right: change was more than possible. How could I insist that it was possible for me while denying him the chance to prove himself changed?

What the hell was I doing?

"Look, I'm not asking you to marry me tomorrow. I'm just asking for the chance to get to know you again, and for you to get to know me, away from my sister, away from Ned, away from Mansfield and all that bullshit. I want to know you. Hopefully you getting to know me will be enough to recommend me." He stood up and placed his glass in the sink. "I'll see myself out."

As he opened the front door, a beam of light fell on a stain on the carpet. The hinges of the screen door screeched. The faucet dripped in a steady batbatbat, and I found myself counting the number of seconds between breaths. Something was wrong, and whether it was me or it was him or it was the house, I had no idea.