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Oliver watches me bring it to the table. His fork stops when I set it beside my chair, although his expression stays carefully neutral.

“I brought you some things.”

I take out the spare glasses first and place them beside his plate. His watch follows. I put down the pen.

Oliver’s eyes stop on that one. “You took my pen.”

“You chew that one.”

Jamie looks from the pen to Oliver and then at me.

I take out the annotated book and place it on top of the others.

Oliver forgets to empty his face. “How long were you in my apartment?”

I reach into the bag again. I place Oliver’s half of the photograph beside his plate.

He doesn’t touch it.

Jamie leans slightly to see. The tear runs down the side of Oliver’s body. His younger face is still laughing in the photograph. I don’t like the expression any better this morning than I did last night.

Oliver looks at the photograph for several seconds before he looks at me. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“I didn’t want the rest.”

His fingers close around the pen.

“A woman came to your apartment.”

The pen stops moving between his fingers. “Who?”

“Juney.”

His eyes sharpen on mine in a way they haven’t all morning. “What did you do, Heather?”

“Hand.”

Oliver doesn’t move.

“You heard me.”

He puts his right hand on the table.

I strike the same place I corrected yesterday. “Now ask.”

His palm remains flat against the wood. “Please tell me what you did?”

“No.” I set the ruler beside my coffee. “She called you Nate.”

Jamie has stopped eating.

Oliver stares at me. “She’s called me that since she could speak.”

“She can fucking stop.”

Jamie makes a small choking sound into his coffee.

“Oliver is your name.” I touch the torn photograph with one finger and push it closer to him. “Nate isn’t.”