His eyes drop from me to the book still clasped in his hand before he gently tosses it onto the sofa. “I suppose there’s no harm in you reading.” He steps around me, but before he’s out of reach, he pauses and turns back. I get the sense he’s about to say something when his father’s voice booms up from the stairwell. “Z, I’ve made arrangements for dinner at seven. It’s your birthday, son. Are you sure there isn’t anyone you’d like to invite?” His birthday, of course. How could I have forgotten? That’s why he’s come home. Zeno stares at me as though his father had never spoken, though a barrage of questions quickly pass behind his ocean eyes. Their meaning is completely lost on me. Instead of pushing for answers, I offer him an uneasy smile. “Happy Birthday, Z.” The words drift between us,
