Page 346 of The Lies We Play

“She tried to eat a coaster this morning.”

“Advanced instincts.”

Vienna grabs my mouth.

I kiss her palm, and she laughs so hard Liv presses one hand to her own stomach as the sound gets inside her before she could defend herself. Halston watches that too. Watches Liv watching my niece. Watches a baby’s laugh move through a room without asking permission.

Something in him loosens.

Thank fuck, and then, we step inside.

The house is already alive.

Shoes by the entry. A tiny pink jacket on a hook. A stack of board books on a bench. Someone’s gym bag was abandoned near the stairs. The lake is visible through the windows past the living room, dark beyond the glass, but the kitchen is lit and warm, full of voices and the smell of roasted chicken, garlic, butter, something sweet in the oven.

Liv stops for one second just past the entry.

I know why.

This house doesn’t look staged.

It looks used.

Loved.

Claimed.

There are toys under the console table. A blanket over the back of the couch. A framed ultrasound photo on a shelf beside a cracked hockey puck and a picture of Vesper between Monty and Callaway, all three of them laughing like they’ve survived something and decided to keep living anyway.

Halston sees it too.

I can feel him absorbing it.

A house with people in it.

A house where love didn’t have to disappear to stay safe.

Then my father appears in the kitchen next to the aisle.

Philippe Lafontaine’s hair is silver at the temples now, his shoulders still broad, his presence still taking up the room without apology. He has a towel over one shoulder and a spoon in his hand, which is Dad’s preferred emotional support weapon.

“There’s my boy,” he says.

“I’m thirty-six, Dad.”

“Almost thirty-seven,” he corrects me, stepping closer. “But you’ll always be my little boy.”

“Please don’t say that in front of my husband and wife.”

Dad’s eyes move to them.

He hands the spoon to Vesper without looking. Then he comes forward, puts one hand on the side of my neck, and kisses both my cheeks the way he has since I was old enough to hate it in public.

Then he turns to Liv.

“Livia,” he says, careful with her name like it matters. “I’m Philippe.”

“I know, nice to meet you,” she says, then immediately winces. “Not in a creepy way. Creed has talked about you a lot. A normal amount. Possibly more than a normal amount, but emotionally appropriate considering everything. Plus, I’ve searched your name on the internet a few times.”