Page 106 of Wreckage and Rain

He doesn't flinch. He has been waiting for this question and he hasn't pushed for it because Dr. Ramos, Dom, the lawyer, and probably his own bones have told him not to.

"October."

"Last October?"

"Yeah."

"Specific date or general?"

"Dr. Ramos and I have been walking it back. There was a Tuesday after the Charlotte trip with the Tidewater team. Cheyenne and I drove back together. We stopped at a gas station outside Florence and she asked me what my favorite song was when I was sixteen. I told her. I hadn't thought about that song in eight years, and the whole way home I kept thinking about how good it felt that someone had asked. I got home and you were at the kitchen island writing. You looked up and asked how the drive was and I said fine and went upstairs to shower. I sat on the edge of the bed for ten minutes feeling guilty for no reason I could name. I didn't know I was making a decision. I know now. That was the night. That was when it started."

I keep my eyes on the road.

"What was the song?"

"The Avett Brothers. I and Love and You. You used to sing it in the truck."

"I remember."

"She didn't know that. She wasn't weaponizing it. I'm not blaming her for asking. It just hit somewhere that had gone quiet. I had stopped letting you ask me anything real. I told myself you already knew me so it didn't matter, and that was a lie. It was easier than letting you in."

The highway hums under the wheels.

"That is the most honest sentence you have ever said to me."

"I have a lot of them now. Dr. Ramos pulls them out one at a time."

"Tell me another one."

He looks at me for a long second. Then back at the road.

"By Christmas, you were lonely. I see it now in a way I refused to see then. The Calloway gala in December. You stood by the window with your back to the room and your arms wrapped around yourself, looking out at the harbor. I remember watching you. I remember thinking you were having a moment, that you would come find me when you were ready. I went to the bar. I told my father a story about the firm. Dr. Ramos and I have come back to that night more than once. I saw something and I looked away. The story where I just didn't see it would be easier. It isn't the true story."

I drive for a long time without saying anything because if I open my mouth I'm going to cry and I don't want to cry on I-75 outside Knoxville.

He puts his hand on the back of my neck. Light. Asking again.

"Yeah," I say. "Please keep that there."

He keeps it there.

By the time we cross into South Carolina, I'm exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with driving. I pull off at a rest stop. Lean my head against the steering wheel.

"You want me to drive?"

"In a minute. Just let me sit."

He sits. His hand on my back, between my shoulder blades. Warm. Steady.

"Summer."

"Yeah."

"Thank you for asking."

"I've been afraid of the answer, but it wasn't as bad as I thought."

"Worse, in some places."