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“I didn’t realize I was loud inside.”

“You weren’t.”

I glance at her. “Then what do you mean?”

Blaire turns toward me.

“I mean you’re different with them.”

“My family?”

“Yes.” She pauses, as if choosing the wording carefully.

“You’re still you, but there’s more weight to it.”

I lean one shoulder against the stone.

“That’s vague.”

“It’s meant to be.”

“Convenient.”

Her mouth curves slightly. “You know exactly what I mean.”

I do, but I want to hear her say it.

“Try me.”

Blaire takes a small sip of wine before answering.

“At dinner, nobody had to ask you to take responsibility for anything. You already had. Your father brought up the problem, Sebastian saw one part of it, and you immediately started thinking about what it would mean five years from now.”

“That’s my job.”

“I know.”

“Then I’m not sure what you find unusual.”

She studies me for a moment.

“Maybe nothing. Maybe I just hadn’t seen that side of you yet.”

There is no admiration in her tone, which is probably why the comment lands harder.

I look back toward the garden.

“I’ve been trained for it my entire life.”

“Since you were a child?”

“More or less.”

Blaire’s expression softens.

“Did you ever get to decide whether you wanted it?”

The question is simple, but it reaches somewhere most people avoid.