I fold the paper, put it in my pocket, and walk to the Chevy. I get in and start her up. The engine catches on the first try this time.
The Chevy runs steadily beneath me as I pull out onto the street—the engine finding its rhythm.
I drive to Skylar’s building, knowing I owe her an explanation—a real one this time. Not the short texts I have been sending her while shame has had its hand around my throat. She deserves the whole truth and I am going to give it to her. Then I am going to sit with whatever she decides to do with it, because that is what I promised her, and I am not breaking another promise to this woman.
I park on the street outside, cut the engine, and sit there with my hands still on the wheel.
I pick up my phone and type out a quick message.
Zane:Hey. Are you home?
Her message comes back immediately, as if she has been waiting for me.
Skylar:Yeah.
Zane:Come out the front.
I get out of the Chevy and wait for her at the curb.
She comes through the front door of the building and stops.
The moment she sees the car, something unguarded crosses her face. Something that belongs to who we were before everything went wrong.
For a second, she doesn’t move.
“You finished it,” she says. Her voice is quiet, and her eyes are bright.
“Yeah.”
I open the passenger door. “Come with me.”
“Where?” She asks, getting into the passenger seat.
I hold her gaze. “Somewhere neither of us has been for a while.”
“Where is that?”
“It’s a surprise.”
I shut the door and take a breath for one second before moving around to the driver’s side.
I get in.
The drive is quiet. Skylar’s hands rest in her lap as mine grip the wheel.
I am nervous. Not the kind that shows. I have spent too many years keeping my face neutral for that. I’m nervous because what I am about to tell her could change everything we just found our way back to.
Skylar sits beside me, looking out the window. She has not asked again where we are going.
The old neighborhood rises around us, piece by piece.
Cracked pavement. Sagging fences. Houses with peeling paint and curtains drawn across windows that have seen too much. Streets we used to walk with our shoulders up because we learned early that you don’t look scared in places that know how to find it.
Then Dolores’ house appears.
For one second, both of us stop breathing.
It sits back from the street, behind its dead little yard and its leaning porch. It’s smaller than memory made it, but no less ugly. Time has not improved it. Nothing ever could and, I doubt, nothing ever will.
