“I couldn’t answer most of it.”
I sat there trying to understand the shape of his grief.
Then my anger came back.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of what you’d think. Of Helen. Of Mike. Of me.”
“You didn’t know he existed.”
“I know.”
“Then why would I blame you?”
“I didn’t know.”
“So instead you lied.”
“I kept putting it off.”
“Like Helen did.”
“She kept postponing the truth because she thought she had time,” I said. “You knew exactly what that cost her, and you did the same thing to me.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
He couldn’t answer.
I started walking toward the hotel.
Robert followed. “Irene.”
“You haven’t called me that all night.”
“What?”
“My name.”
He looked confused.
“You keep saying you were afraid, you were shocked, you didn’t know how. Everything is about how hard this was for you.”
