Emma.
Roger couldn't stop pacing. His shirt hung loosely on his frame, partially unbuttoned, and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing the veins in his large forearms.
His hair was a disheveled mess, as though he’d been raking his fingers through it over and over.
When I stepped into the room, he stopped abruptly and turned to face me.
I stood by the door, not knowing what to say to him. How to look at him.
“You’re here,” he said softly, gesturing toward the armchair by the window. “Sit. Please.”
I hesitated for a few seconds but finally obeyed, sinking into the plush seat.
Roger grabbed a decanter from the side table and poured himself a drink. I wondered how his fingers didn't tremble. I wondered how he was holding it all together.
“Have you eaten?” he asked as he passed
