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“He loves you,” she said.

The words landed more gently than I expected.

“Does he?”

Her forehead creased. “Yes.”

“You sound very sure.”

“Because I've seen the way he looks at you.”

I turned toward her. “What way?”

Kim considered that while she reached for her Coke.

“Like you're his.”

Something in my chest tightened before I could stop it.

“That doesn't sound especially romantic.”

“I don't mean like he owns you.” She took a drink, then set the cup down. “It's more like when you walk into a room, he relaxes a little.”

I stared at her. That wasn't how I had remembered Paul. I remembered the Saab, his perfectly ironed shirts, dinners with our parents, Cleveland, his father's brokerage, and the future everyone had already arranged without asking me how I felt about any of it.

But I also remembered fifty-year-old Paul standing behind my chair at Hudson's with his hand resting on my shoulder while Claire took pictures.

I'm proud of you.

Then another memory came, quieter and even more familiar, Paul at a red light flexing the fingers he'd broken playing lacrosse before resting his hand on my knee.

Do you want to talk about it?

No.

Okay.

At twenty-three, his restraint had seemed comforting. By fifty, I'd decided it was a form of distance between us.

Now, sitting across from Kim while someone nearby shouted for more beer, I wasn't sure which version had been right.

Kim's eyes narrowed.

“There's someone else.”

There wasn't any accusation in her voice, which somehow made it harder to deny.

Twenty-three-year-old Lorrie would have laughed, changed the subject, or complained about the heat until Kim gave up.

Fifty-year-old me was apparently too tired for that much work.

“Dean.”

Kim looked around, then lowered her voice. “Record-store Dean?”

“How many Deans do I know?”

“I don't know. Maybe you have a tennis Dean. Your family has people for everything.”