Tatum waited for the right moment.
Not a perfect moment—that didn't exist. A possible moment. One of those March afternoons when the sun came back without warning, when the air smelled of wet earth, when people let their guard down because the light was soft.
Allison was in the courtyard, sitting in a garden chair that Timothe had brought out too early in the season. She was reading a magazine—or pretending to. Her eyes moved over the pages without stopping.
Tatum came down with two coffees.
—Can I?
—Of course!
Tatum sat down. Handed her a coffee. Allison took it with that smile—the one that lit up everything, all the time, even when there was nothing to light up.
They drank in silence. The wind in the dead rosebushes. A bird somewhere. The distant noise of the city.
—I wanted to talk to you about something, Tatum said.
—About Williams?
Tatum blinked.
—How do you know?
—Because everyone wants to talk to me about Williams. My mother, my coworkers, the baker downstairs from my old building. Everyone thinks we're together. We're not together.
—I know.
—So what is it?
Tatum set down her coffee. Looked at Allison. Really looked at her. Not the smile, not the energy, not the light—the girl behind it all. The one who listened.
—It's the story of Williams and his father. The whole story. From the beginning.
Allison fell silent. The magazine slid from her lap. She didn't pick it up.
—Tell me.
Tatum told her.
Everything. From the beginning. From Book 1—even though she didn't call it that. She called it “when I got here.”
She told her about Williams at sixteen. The obsession. The looks in math class. The messages. The stolen photos. The way he followed her through the high school hallways, waited for her outside, looked at her as if she were the only person in the world.
—It was unhealthy, Tatum said. I know that. But he was sixteen. And his mother was pushing him.
She told her about Vanessa. The manipulation. The way she used Williams as a weapon against Jimmy. The lies. The scenes. The cold war that had become an actual war.
—Jimmy cut ties. With Vanessa. With Williams. With everything. He had no choice. Vanessa was destroying him. And Williams was on his mother's side.
—He was sixteen, Allison said.
—I know.
—At sixteen, you're always on your mother's side.
Tatum looked at her. Allison's eyes were shining. Not with tears—with understanding. That emotional intelligence that made her someone rare.
—And now? Allison asked.
—Now Vanessa is dead. She killed herself. And Williams is here. He's changed. He doesn't look at me anymore. He only looks at you.
Allison opened her mouth. Then closed it.
—He doesn't—
—Allison.
—We're just friends.
—Allison.
Silence. The wind. The bird that had gone quiet.
—I'm not telling you this because of you and Williams, Tatum said. I'm telling you this because of Williams and his father. Jimmy refuses to speak to him. He refuses to see him. He refuses to admit that his son has come back. Because he's afraid. Because the last time he trusted someone who carried the Witter name, he almost didn't make it out alive.
—And what do you want me to do?
—Nothing. I just want you to know. Because you're the only person Williams listens to. And maybe if you know, you might... I don't know. Do something we can't do.
Allison looked at the courtyard. The dead rosebushes. The door to Williams's apartment—closed, silent.
—He talks about his father, Allison said softly. At night. When we're watching movies and he thinks I'm asleep. He talks to himself. He says things like, “I'm sorry” or “I know I screwed up.” And once he said, “Dad, I'm here.”
Tatum felt something tighten in her throat.
—He loves him, Allison said. He loves him so much it kills him.
—I know.
—And Jimmy?
—Jimmy does too. But Jimmy is afraid. And with Jimmy, fear looks like anger.
Allison nodded. She picked up her magazine. Set it on the chair. Stood up.
—I'm not going to do anything spectacular, she said. That's not who I am. But I'll... be there. And maybe if I'm there long enough, things will start to move.
Tatum watched her leave. This twenty-five-year-old girl in dirty sneakers who had just understood in twenty minutes what 8 Branly Street had been trying to solve for years.
That evening, Tatum was on the couch. Jimmy was reading an architectural plan. Or pretending to.
—I told Allison everything, Tatum said.
Jimmy looked up.
—Everything?
—Everything.
—Why?
—Because she can do what you and I can't. She can talk to him. She can talk to you. She's between the two of you, and she has no past to carry.
Jimmy set down his plan. Looked at the ceiling.
—He's changed, Tatum said softly. You can see it. He doesn't look at me anymore. He doesn't make scenes anymore. He goes to work, comes home, eats cereal with Allison. He's a normal kid. A kid in grief. A kid who just wants his father to look at him.
—He's not a kid. He's twenty.
—At twenty, you're still a kid when you've lost your mother.
Jimmy didn't answer. But his hands, resting on the plan, were trembling a little. Tatum saw it. She said nothing. She rested her head on his shoulder. He let her.
Outside, in the courtyard, the dead rosebushes waited for spring.