The idea stirs an old anxiety, the kind that comes from spending years as a bull’s-eye in a field full of arrows. “You’re still close with Misha, then?”

“We became close, after…” He trails off, fiddling with his coffee cup, spinning it between his hands. “I guess that kind of thing bonds you pretty good. You know Misha’s vice principal at the school now?”

I still can’t wrap my head around it, but I nod. “She told me.”

“She’s doin’ good, too.” Then he clears his throat, looking suddenly embarrassed. “Well, I know you didn’t come back so we could take a stroll through memory lane. I know why you guys are here and I’m happy to help however I can. I figure I owe you that much, right?”

“Owe me?” My pulse picks up. “What do you mean?”

For a second, he falters. When he adjusts his position, the vinyl squeaks faintly again, like the sound of a new shoe. “Teenagers can be real assholes. I know we were. I know I was. And Misha, and Kaycee, and the others. Honestly, I have no idea why.” He puts his hand through his hair and it falls easily back into place. “What I’m trying to say”—he looks hard at me, as though seeing me for the first time—“is that I’m sorry.”

The apology is so plain, so straightforward, I’m left wordless.

He was with Kaycee, but he liked you, Misha had said at the Donut Hole. All that long hair…

“I don’t need you to apologize,” I say, feeling suddenly angry: Misha, my dad, Brent. They’re all twisting my memories, making me doubt things I always counted on as true.

“I know. But I want to apologize.”

He wants me to tell him it’s okay—but I won’t. I refuse. I decide to cut to the chase. “So you’ve been at Optimal since high school graduation?” I hate the idea he might think I’ve come here to work through my past—or, at least, his part in it.

“Well, you know my dad was there for years. I was already interning by senior year. Then I started loading trucks. Way fancier than it sounds. My cousin Byron had a buddy over there…kinda took me under his wing—and I’ve been moving up ever since.” He stirs his coffee carefully, just the way Misha did, adding sugars one by one. “Optimal really saved my dad back when he left the carpenters union. I’m not sure what he would’ve done. I never forgot that. It saved his life. Men need good work.”

“Women, too,” I say, without missing a beat.

“Women, too, of course.” It’s hard to stay annoyed when he smiles like that.

“Optimal has done a lot of good for the town,” I say carefully. “We’re just here to make sure they haven’t done bad.”

He scoffs. “Gallagher’s all fired up, I hear.” When the waitress arrives with the food, he pretends not to notice how she stares at him. “Remember the time he shot Grant Haimes? Got him in the knee. He had to drop varsity.” He shakes his head. “ ‘Goddamn ky-oats!’ ” He does a decent imitation of old man Gallagher.