“Hey.” I hug my friend and step back. “That is a gorgeous dress.” She wears a red Tibi halter dress and her hair is down, curling and free around her face.

She sweeps her hand around the room. “Everyone is talking about your Mother’s exhibit more than any other. I feel sorry for the other women’s families.” She laughs. “It’s that photo of you two facing each other. It’s eerie and fantastic. So poignant.”

“Thanks,” I say, glancing at Dad, who has engaged in a conversation with the man next to him. “I think Dad is a bit overwhelmed.”

Sadie nods toward Hutch. “And you?”

“I’m fine.”

She rolls her eyes. “I am sure you are.”

A microphone squeals and the president of the History Center begins to speak about the exhibit. Slowly the evening fades and the crowd thins. Finally, when I feel I can no longer breathe, I walk outside into the cooler spring air and sit on a bench. I feel Hutch next to me before I see him.

“Hey, you,” I say without turning around.

He sits next to me. “You look beautiful tonight.”

I blush, but he can’t see me in the starless, moonless night. A single lantern is lit along the pathway to the right, and Hutch is more a shadow than a man. “You can’t even see me,” I say.

“Oh, trust me, I saw you.”

“Hutch, this is your best work yet. It’s spectacular. Really, it is.”

“Thank you so much.”

We are silent for a few moments and I twist to face him. “Are you hiding out here?”

“No.” He pauses and then speaks in an almost whisper. “I saw you leave and I wanted to say good-bye.”

“I just needed some fresh air. It’s a bit much in there.”

“Yes, it is.”

“So … how are you, Hutch? I know you’ve probably been buried under this show, but how are you?”

“I’m well, or at least I think I am. You’re right—I’ve been consumed with this show and am just now getting my head above water.” He laughs. “God, how cliché is that?”

I decide to say the one truth. “I miss you, Hutch.”

“Of course I miss you, too. Are you okay, Ellie? Are you doing all right?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He turns to stare at me as if he can read my face. He knows I’m not lying, but I’m not telling the truth.

“So … how’s Hillary? I’d love to meet her …”

“She’s fine.” He pauses before he says, “I’m so sorry … about your divorce.”

“Thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“I never know what to say when someone says they’re sorry. You didn’t do anything to be sorry about.”

A wind of unspoken words washes over us, unsettling as we fidget in our seats.

Finally, I speak. “Well, I guess in a way you did do something.”

“What?”