“You used to like that.”

“I loved it.” The word settled between them. Cassandra looked away. “You don’t get to say that as if three years disappeared.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know me anymore.”

“I know you still rub your thumb against the side of your coffee cup when you’re scared.” She immediately stopped doing it. “I know you still make frightening things sound gentle for children.

I know you work in neonatal intensive care because losing a baby terrifies you more than almost anything. And I know you’re exhausted, because you haven’t let yourself depend on anyone since I left.”