He chuckles, one hand rubbing his jaw and the other turning us away from the square. “It would be far faster to tell you I’m sick of never-ending paperwork.”

“I thought you meant you were exhausted from folding so much origami.” I smile when he side-eyes me.

The emojis started long ago, so long I’d need to scroll for a while to stumble upon anything else. We play it as a game, a challenge to keep it going. Although, deep down, it doubles as another contingency. Like my hidden bag. Like his contact name R. Like us right now in his car.

We use it as a way to protect each other from the potential fallout.

And texting my mom’s ex in his police chief’s house sets up for all kinds.

“You could give up, you know? Admit defeat.”

“Never,” he says.

Roman pulls into a tiny lot of gravel near the playground equipment at the park. Somewhere for parents to marginally supervise from their car. My urge to grab my phone and capture the emptiness of the jungle gym surges. The abandoned slides and monkey bars missing life. Long dead leaves twirling across the bridge in the cold breeze. Everything exists in a state of waiting until the noise of laughter and life return.

“I love when you do that.”

I swing around to Roman studying me while I imagine the shot. “When I completely space the real world for one I’m framing in my head?”

“When you lose yourself, finding so much in the real world no one else cares to notice.”

My dad would say everyone experiences the pulse of the world around them, but only the rare eye sees through to its heart.

I slump in the seat, playing with a button on my coat. “Maybe I see it because I’m one of those things that go overlooked.”

Sometimes even by the man I loved more than anything.

The thought brings on a familiar onslaught of guilt. After my dad died and my mom got rid of the phone he’d given me—along with everything else I inherited—my anger turned on him too. He left me with her while he lived his dream, and his dream is ultimately how he left me forever. But then I realized it wasn’t fair to him.

The world shows us everything up front, and whether we look is on us. I learned young to hide what people don’t like to see—spare them the burden. I can’t blame my dad for believing I wouldn’t. He thought I missed him, not that I needed him to stay too.

A beat passes before Roman reaches in front of me to open the glove box. He places two fingers on a soft pink envelope and slides it straight out and into my lap. I squint at him, picking it up while he closes the compartment.

“Writing me love letters, Roman Moore?”