Aldo was quiet for a moment.
“Time travel,” he said.
She fought a smile, giving him an admonishing shake of her head.
“I’m not trying to solve it, though.”
“So?” he asked neutrally. “That probably means you’ll solve it first.”
“Because I’m a genius?”
“Because you’re a genius,” he confirmed, and then, without any transition, “I want to see your art.”
She opened her mouth, then hesitated.
“That’s a key,” he noted, and she rolled her eyes.
“I just don’t have any,” she said. “I haven’t done anything in ages. Years.”
“Not even a sketch?”
“Not even a sketch,” she said, shaking her head. “Haven’t had time.”
A lie.
“You’re lying,” he said.
She sighed. “You know, it’s poor form to accuse a lady of lying all the time.”
“Well, you can lie if you want,” he assured her. “I just like to know when it’s happening. You know, note it in the minutes, at least. Maybe know it in advance, if we can establish a system.”
“Control issues,” she observed aloud, brow arched.
He didn’t seem to see a problem with that. “Do you prefer ignorance?”
“I should, probably,” she admitted. “Ignorance really does seem to be bliss.”
That, however, he did seem to take issue with. “I think I’d rather be informed than blissful.”
“So you’d rather have knowledge than happiness?”
He thought about it. “Yes,” he concluded, and then hesitated. “Sometimes,” he began slowly, “doesn’t happiness seem … fake? Like it might be something someone invented. An impossible goal we’ll never reach,” he clarified, “just to keep us all quiet.”
“Almost certainly,” she agreed.
They drove in silence for a few minutes.
“What’s your mother’s name?” she asked eventually.
“Ana,” he said.
“Have you ever been curious about her?”
“Yes.”
“Ever tried to meet her?”
“No. I don’t think I could find her if I tried.”
She spared him a sympathetic grimace. “Well, they say never to meet your heroes.”
“She’s not my hero,” he said, “but I see your point.”
“Was it just you and your dad, then?”
“And my nonna, yes.”
“Are you close to her?”
“I was.”
“Oh.” She winced. “Sorry.”
He shrugged. “You couldn’t have known.”
“Yeah, but still—”
“What about your mother?”
She chewed her lip.
“Another key,” he observed, adding, “You don’t have to answer.”
“Well, you’ll meet her,” Regan said with a shrug, “so it probably won’t take very long to figure out. I’m sort of a textbook case, you know. Narcissistic mother, high-achieving sister, work-obsessed father. So common it’s nearly Freudian.”
“I don’t believe that. And Freud has been largely discredited.”
“Well, I’m something along those lines, then,” she said. “Every psychologist has seen some version of me before, I’m sure.”
He gave her a long, searching look. “Who told you that?”
Her doctor. Her lawyer.
A judge. A jury of her peers.
Marc.
“No one.” She met his glance briefly, then turned back to the road. “First kiss?”
“Sixth grade, Jenna Larson. Yours?”
“Ninth grade,” she said. “Late bloomer.”
“Probably best. Mine was terrible.”
She laughed. “So was mine. First time?”
“I was sixteen,” he said. “Under the bleachers. She was of those anarchist stoner types.”
“God, of course she was. I was sixteen, too,” she said. “He was captain of the water polo team.”
Aldo chuckled. “Of course he was.”
“His name was Rafe,” she said, and Aldo groaned.
“Of course it was,” they said in unison.
When the laughter had died from her tongue, Regan felt something else take its place, filling the vacancy in her chest. Some other compulsion twitched at her limbs, and she reached over, placing her hand on his knee.
This time, Aldo didn’t flinch. He rested his hand on hers, covering it briefly and running his thumb over her knuckles; satisfied, she retracted it, securing both hands on the wheel.