[ There's an instant when Grace looks like she's about to cry and in that moment, Peek panics silently — his chest suddenly too small for his heart, his heart suddenly shouting a litany of no no no. He's never liked seeing girls cry, even when he was a little boy. The sounds they make, both the loud and the soft, the way their breath catches in their tiny throats. The tears falling fat or running thin, salt staining cheeks flushed pink and red — still pretty but desperate and alarmingly heartbreaking. All of it triggers an internal panic in Eamonn, one that makes him feel momentarily childish (and in that childishness, overwhelmingly helpless).

He knows, if Grace cries, it's all over. If she cries, he'll have no choice but to give her the things that she wants — however well-intended and poorly-received. (In this interaction, he is the adult and she is the child, but every man has a weakness. And Eamonn's is a girl's tears.) ]

Grace— [ He reaches for her face now, cradling it between his hands. Every attempt to comfort, every reassurance that he loves her, is as good as an insult on top of his perpetual hesitation, but he doesn't know how else to help her without cutting himself out of her life completely. ] —sweetheart.

[ Gracie. It's always Gracie. Except when it's sweetheart and except when it's Grace — the former speaking of fondess (a softness), the later speaking of love (an ardency). ] If t'ere's someone who's needin' t'be sorry, it's me. No' you. I'm sorry. Y'understand? [ Shutting his eyes he exhales heavily. He feels old; he looks old. Still his thumb brushes her cheek. ] M'so very sorry.