Colton was not a party to any of it — he was, like me, someone Desmond and Adaline had lied to — but he was the one left standing in the ruins of his own marriage, holding a grief I couldn’t fix.

He came to my father’s house the night the affair became undeniable, and he did not roar or break things the way the men in stories do.

He just sat at the kitchen table, the same table Desmond had carved turkeys at, and he put his head in his hands and was quiet for a long time.

“Did you know?” he asked me finally.

“Not until Tuesday,” I said.

“I swear it, Colton.