“Were you always like this?”
“No.”
“What changed?”
“You.”
His expression became wary.
I regretted the answer.
“Not because you fixed me,” I added. “You didn’t. You expected me to be honest, even when honesty was inconvenient.”
“Did we fight about that?”
“Often.”
“Who won?”
“Usually you.”
“That doesn’t sound believable.”
“You were relentless.”
He looked toward the grass again.
“I remember Denver.”
“I know.”
“I remember why I left.”
The air shifted.
We had spoken only briefly about that part of his life.
“The men at work,” I said.
His jaw tightened.
“I remember watching every word. Every look. I remember knowing they’d turn on me if they knew.”
I waited.
“I remember someone writing something on my truck.”
“Yes.”
“I remember thinking I was done trusting people.”
His gaze lifted to mine.
“You said I trusted you.”
“You did.”
“Why?”
