I watch him for a few moments, but Cameron is a quick study and has a steady hand, so I motion for him to take the higher shelves while I work on the lower. “Have you done this before?” I ask.

“Not really. But I’m capable enough.” We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes and it’s strange how not strange this is. Cameron Riggs is here in Michigan. Next to me. Varnishing shelves.

“I’m really sorry again, about your parents, Cam. I feel terrible I didn’t know.”

“How could you? It’s okay.” He takes a deep breath, obviously steeling himself for something. “While we’re apologizing, I’m sorry for—”

I cut him off with a shake of my head. “Don’t. It’s fine.”

“It wasn’t. Please just let me say it, Shelby.”

I really, really don’t want to listen to this, but from his determined tone, there’s no avoiding it. “Okay, fine.”

He’s still holding the brush, but he stops to face me and tugs down his mask. His eyes pierce my carefully constructed shell. I swallow hard. “I’m sorry I left. I didn’t want to. You probably won’t believe me but walking away from you that day was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I just knew I couldn’t let anything, um, like that, happen between us. Again. You weren’t in the right headspace.”

“And you were?”

He shakes his head wryly. “Not really, no. Timing always seems to be against us.”

I let that sink in, taking his version of events and replacing it over the hazy version of mine.

“I wondered,” I say. “Not at the time, of course. I was too out of my mind to wonder then. But since … I kept your note. Which is kind of a miracle.”

He laughs self-deprecatingly. “I’m shocked you didn’t burn it.”

“I know, right? It was a dick move, Riggs, leaving while I slept. But not a complete waste. I got out before they sucked me dry, like you told me to. Packed my stuff, rented a truck, and showed up at my dad’s door three days later.”

He clears his throat, his voice a little hoarse. “I thought if I waited for you to wake up, I wouldn’t be able to leave. But leaving you … I was no better than Lyle. I’m so sorry.”

I feel the press of tears and I wave him off, pleading for him to stop. To stop being so nice. Stop being so caring. Stop being so Cam. “Forgiven, okay? I really, truly don’t want to talk about that day anymore.”

He nods in silence and we go back to varnishing.

“What are you listening to?” he asks.

“Il Divo.”

He nods again, and we fall quiet. It’s not uncomfortable or awkward. It’s … nice.