I shouldn’t have come home.

Three years in London were supposed to fix it. Three years of distance, of new cities and colder weather and forcing myself not to think about the way his voice sounded when he said my name. I almost managed it.

Then the call came.

“I’m getting married again,” he said. “I need you here for the engagement weekend. Your mother would have wanted you present.”

He never said her name. He never had to. The silence after the words did all the work.

So I packed a bag, got on a plane, and walked back into the penthouse that still smelled like him—cedar, whiskey, and...