Her eyes flicked to the ceiling, but she laughed. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

We headed out of the store, and though she didn’t hesitate, I watched her gaze dart around the room, cataloging things she needed to do.

“Salted butterscotch or mint brownie?” I asked to distract her, pushing the door open.

Her roaming eyes found mine, stilling them so I could get her out of the store. “Hmm … butterscotch. It’s too hot for chocolate.”

“Is that a thing?”

Her brow rose. “Have you ever seen what happens to chocolate when it’s hot?”

“That doesn’t apply to ice cream. That’s gonna melt whether it’s hot out or not.”

“It’s heavy and thick, too thick for this kind of heat.”

“It’s ice cream, Tess. Its sole purpose is to cool you off.”

But she shrugged. “Butterscotch today, hands down. In a sugar cone. And you’re gonna get … dreamsicle. Waffle cone. With white chocolate sprinkles.”

I laughed. “Well, that’s the first time I’ve been accused of being predictable.”

“Trust me, you’re not. I just pay attention to things like that … my brain is full of all kinds of useless information like it. Regarding your ice cream preferences, you like dreamsicle when you’re overwhelmed. Cherry chunk when you’re happy—sugar cone. Fudge ripple when you’re down or stressed.”

“Huh. That’s true, and I didn’t even know it.”

“I mean, not that you’re down much. But you got fudge ripple with me after my mom died. And the day Wendy came back.”

I sobered. “I’m still sorry for that.”

“And you still have no reason to be. It’s okay, Luke. I trust you. I’m just sorry you have to deal with the uncertainty. That would drive me nuts. I’d probably go looking for a confrontation just to have some sort of resolution.”

“Confrontations with Wendy don’t typically end well. Broken furniture or stitches maybe, but the fallout usually isn’t worth the price paid.”

We walked in silence for a moment, the heat beating down on us. It was oppressive, the weight of it. The weight of Wendy between us.

“She’s always been like this?”

“As long as I’ve known her. But she didn’t show it until after we were married. And then … well, she was my wife. I wanted to help her, take care of her. It just never got better. She would try for a while, but inevitably, it’d fall apart again. Mom likes to remind me I’m not responsible for her, but that’s not how it feels. It feels like I’m the only one who can be responsible for her, including herself. How do you walk away from that? How do you turn your back on someone who can’t help themselves, knowing you’re the only one who can?”

“I don’t know,” she answered softly. “I don’t know that I could either, not when you put it like that. But … well, at the same time, I hate her for what she did to you. For hurting you.”

“Join the crowd. What nobody gets is that she can’t help it.”