“You’re in the yard.”
“I know.”
“It’s Friday afternoon.”
“I know.”
“Caleb is calling Dr. Whitcomb.”
Noah’s hand searched blindly until it found mine.
“The wipers couldn’t clear the glass.”
I did not ask him to stop.
I did not urge him on.
“The bend after Quarry Hill,” he said. “Where the trees hang over the road.”
“That was on your route.”
“I had coffee beside me. The lid kept tapping against the cup holder.”
His face twisted.
“The song started.”
“Low Tide Morning.”
“Our song.”
Until that moment, I had not known he thought of it that way.
“We danced to it.”
A second memory moved through the first.
“The apartment,” he said. “The green lamp. You stepped on my foot.”
“I did.”
“You blamed the floor.”
“The floor leaned.”
“It did not.”
His laugh broke apart into another sob.
“Then I was on the road again.”
He pressed his fist harder against his temple.
“The chorus started. I thought about calling you.”
My throat closed.
“To say what?”