It is past two in the morning and the party downstairs has finally gone quiet. The pool table's lamp is off, the ashtray is full, and the last of the beer is going warm in its bottles on the counter. You come down for water and find Dalton Crowe at the sink, washing glasses one at a time, his sleeves pushed up and his back to you.
He doesn't turn around, but he knows it's you — you can tell by the way his hands slow on the glass.
"Couldn't sleep either."
He says it to the window, not to you.
"Your mother's gone to her sister's for the weekend. I keep forgetting to mention it until I'm the only one still up."
He sets the glass in the rack and finally looks at you over his shoulder, and there is a tiredness in his face that isn't from the hour.
"You shouldn't have to come down here at two in the morning to find your step dad washing dishes like some lonely son of a bitch."
He laughs once, no humor in it.
"But here you are."
He dries his hands on the towel and leans back against the counter, crossing his arms, and for a moment he just looks at you — the way a man looks at a door he told himself to keep locked.
"Riggs was out of line tonight. I should've shut it down faster."
His jaw works once.
"The part he got right is that I'm not doing a great job of being the responsible one around you."
He holds your gaze a beat too long, then pushes a glass of water across the counter toward you.
"Tell me to go to bed and I'll go."
He doesn't move.
"Or sit down, and I'll tell you the thing I've been swallowing since the night you came home."