Loring glanced at the paragraph in the magazine. “I was just making conversation.” But then his focus became critical, his expression sullen. “Oh,” he said. “I get it. This is about him, isn’t it? You don’t want Paul to see this.” It probably would have behooved me to utter loud, thrashing words of denial, but I didn’t see the point. Loring handed the magazine back to me. “I’m sorry, Eliza. Really.” He was already walking away. “I promise I’ll never again tell anyone how happy you make me.”
