“He grew up outside Worcester.”
Not Boston.
For some reason, that detail settled one question and created three more.
“His mom teaches elementary school.”
“And his dad?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask?”
She laughed.
“We’ve known each other for one afternoon.”
Fair enough.
She tucked her phone into her pocket.
“Actually…” Her smile returned. “I kind of already invited him over.”
“You what?”
“For dinner.”
“When?”
“This Friday.”
I looked at the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator.
Friday was three days away.
“I hope that’s okay.”
She looked almost nervous now.
“I just thought…” She shrugged. “…I’d like you to meet him.”
I smiled because that’s what mothers do.
“I’d love to.”
The words came easily.
Believing them was harder.
The next three days dragged.
Every time I convinced myself I was being ridiculous, Richard crept back into my thoughts.
The Green Line. Cheap harbor lunches. The way he used to steal fries from my plate because he claimed stolen calories didn’t count.
I hadn’t allowed myself to think about him in years.
Not because I’d stopped loving him. Because I’d never understood why he’d disappeared.
We’d planned an apartment.
We talked about rings, argued over whether we’d eventually move to the suburbs or stay in Boston forever.
Then one morning he called.
His voice sounded wrong.
Not angry or distant.
Terrified.
