“That’s crap, Ry.” I speak every language in the world. They don’t care about me in any of them.

“Okay, maybe they don’t love you in the way that you need. But I can’t imagine that they don’t love you at all. That’s not possible.”

“You don’t know them. They’re capable of anything.” Adultery, blackmail, attempted murder, having kids just to create more worshippers. What’s not loving one stupid, noncompliant mortal daughter on the list of their sins and shortcomings?

“No, I mean it’s not possible not to love you. Even if they are the worst parents in the world. If they didn’t love you, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, grabbing his phone to find some music so that hopefully he will stop talking. He doesn’t know them. He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. If even Sirus doesn’t get it, Ry never ever could.

I scroll through the playlists and stop. “Why do you have a playlist named ‘Isadora’?”

He snatches the phone from me with a sheepish grin. “In the interest of not pissing you off anymore tonight, let’s not select that particular playlist.” Ignoring my glare (why oh why couldn’t I have inherited the instant-headache glare?), he turns on something instrumental. “So, if you could reconcile with your parents and get what you need from them, would you be willing to date someone? Is that the hang-up?”

“What’s the point of it all? Love sets you up for disappointment and pain, and we all end up alone one way or another. Nothing—nothing—in my life can last.”

“I take issue with every aspect of that. Love is a point in and of itself. But the core of your argument is that relationships are pointless because they don’t last, right?”

“Sure.”

“Then why do you design rooms? I mean, they’re nice now, but styles and tastes change. You aren’t creating anything permanent. The museum wing you’re killing yourself for will only be there for a few months. So what’s the point in spending so much time and energy investing all of yourself into something that isn’t permanent?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Well, for one thing, rooms don’t betray you. I’ve yet to meet a room that snuck around and slept with its sister-room’s husband.”

Ry snorts. “Well, most people won’t do that, either. And unlike rooms, people can give things back to you. Contribute as much or more than you do.”

“People aren’t like designs. I can’t pick and choose everything that goes into them, and I can’t imagine anyone picking what I am.”

“You have a terrible imagination then. But what I’m getting is that this is a control issue. You’re scared because the other person is outside of your control, and so is the way they make you feel.”

“This is a terrible analysis. Designing is nothing like love. Idiot gods, you must be the worst poet ever if these are your metaphors.”

He laughs. “See? How could I ever be arrogant with you around? Someday I’ll let you read my poems and decide for yourself. But I’m not backing down on this. Are you a coward?”

“No.”

“So stop being such a wimp about the potential for pain. If that’s how you’re going to live your life, you may as well be an empty room yourself. I like you. I want to be your friend, but I also want you in ways that are very much not just friendly. And I’m not going to apologize or pretend I don’t.”

I tip my head back and squeeze my eyes shut. Why is he forcing me to address this? We were fine. We were doing fine. I liked what we had. It was safe.

He pulls to a stop and I’m shocked to see we’re already back at Sirus’s.

“I get that you’re scared and that you’ve been hurt. But doing what is easy and safe is no way to live, and a life without passion and love is so far beneath what you deserve.”

His words hit me in the gut and my head spins. He’s right. I’ve been choosing alone because it’s safe and easy. It doesn’t mean that I’m stronger or smarter than everyone else. Just that I’m . . . scared. I’m letting all of the hurt I’ve had over the last few years keep me from moving forward.

I climb out robotically as Ry opens my door, avoiding his eyes. I am a coward.

“I hope you have good dreams tonight, Isadora,” he says, and the way my name leaves his mouth, it sounds like I should be as strong and brave as I used to think I was. It sounds like the part of myself that I left locked in my tomb isn’t as buried as I thought. It sounds like there’s a possibility for an Isadora who is strong and brave without being hard and closed off. Who is strong and brave and hopeful and open. Who is lovingly optimistic and forgiving.

It sounds terrifying.

I want to hear it again.

Sirus is on the couch when I drift inside, confused and exhausted.

It’s the middle of the night, but he’s sitting there folding pieces of clothing so tiny they can’t possibly be for a person, even a baby. He smoothes the wrinkles out of a creamy-white satin blanket, the look on his face a combination of wistful and tender.

I lean against the wall, so tired I want to sink into it and sleep forever. I have to be at the museum in three hours. I have to see Ry again in three hours. I don’t know what I’ll do. Tonight feels like it changed something. Maybe everything. Maybe nothing.