Randall.
Tired and irritated by the expectation that dying should turn him profound.
Tears spilled down my face.
I let them.
I missed you every day.
I stopped.
The sentence was simple.
No explanation.
No justification.
I read it again.
I missed you every day.
My shoulders began to shake.
Wade turned his face away to give me the useless privacy of a man sitting six feet from me in a hallway.
I pressed my knuckles to my lips.
For nearly a year, I had wanted proof.
I had despised myself for wanting it.
During the worst nights, when my bones hurt and my mouth tasted of metal and Elise was asleep in the next room, I had sometimes imagined Randall standing outside my window. Not coming in. Just standing there, unable to stay away.
Then morning came and the driveway was empty.
I had taught myself to stop imagining.
