Argh, I don’t know. I always assumed it was in Latin or some other dead language.

“Your brother?” St. Clair points above my bed to the only picture I’ve hung up. Seany is grinning at the camera and pointing at one of my mother’s research turtles, which is lifting its neck and threatening to take away his finger. Mom is doing a study on the lifetime reproductive habits of snapping turtles and visits her brood in the Chattahoochee River several times a month. My brother loves to go with her, while I prefer the safety of our home. Snapping turtles are mean.

“Yep. That’s Sean.”

“That’s a little Irish for a family with tartan bedspreads.”

I smile. “It’s kind of a sore spot. My mom loved the name, but Granddad—my father’s father—practically died when he heard it. He was rooting for Malcolm or Ewan or Dougal instead.”

St. Clair laughs. “How old is he?”

“Seven. He’s in the second grade.”

“That’s a big age difference.”

“Well, he was either an accident or a last-ditch effort to save a failing marriage. I’ve never had the nerve to ask which.”

Wow. I can’t believe I just blurted that out.

He sits down on the edge of my bed. “Your parents are divorced?”

I hover by my desk chair, because I can’t sit next to him on the bed. Maybe when I’m used to his presence, I might be able to manage that particular feat. But not yet. “Yeah. My dad left six months after Sean was born.”

“I’m sorry.” And I can tell he means it. “Mine are separated.”

I shiver and tuck my hands underneath my arms. “Then I’m sorry, too. That sucks.”

“It’s all right. My father’s a bastard.”

“So is mine. I mean, obviously he is, if he left us when Seany was a baby. Which he totally did. But it’s also his fault I’m stuck here. In Paris.”