“You lied,” she said.

“What? Not to you.”

“Yes, to me. You didn’t tell me you were . . . drunk . . . the night you ran over that woman. That Eliza protected you.”

“I was not drunk. I’d been drinking, yes. But I was perfectly capable of driving. That woman walked out in front of the car—drunk as hell. I didn’t hit her because I was drunk or driving crazy. She walked out. In front. Of. My. Truck. I did not lie to you.”

He panicked, desperate; Amy saw something in him that was not wholly true: that he was a drunk who ran over and killed a woman, that he was a killer because of a bottle of tequila. A long time ago it was what he’d believed of himself too . . . back when Amy didn’t answer the telegrams, when his life had spiraled down to the echoing loneliness of knowing he was responsible for where he was—jail—and why.

“Amy, I did not—did not—run over her because I was drunk. Shit, I spent a year in jail for it . . . and she was the one staggering across the road. Yes, I killed her. I ran over her. I drove the truck. I spent a year in jail, thinking you deserted me because of it. You don’t think I’ve had enough guilt over that? Enough pain? You want me to relive it—go back to Costa Rica and tell her family, tell the police that I had a little celebratory tequila before driving six students home?”

“No, I don’t want that. No. I wanted to know everything. God, I just wanted to know everything, and you left that part out. It’s all just so terrible . . . so sad.”

“Would it have made a difference in your feelings? If it had, it would have been exactly what I thought then, anyway. Just coming full circle twenty-five years later.”

“No, I don’t think it would’ve made a difference in how I feel. . . . Oh, my God, what have I done? Nothing is what I thought . . . I’m not what I thought.”

“Yes, you are . . .”

“No. No.” Her body shook as she wept.

He touched her hair. “Please don’t cry, Amy. Please. It breaks my heart in a thousand places. I came to make sure you’re okay . . . to tell you I’m here, that I still love you. It was not just a random night in a deserted house to me. . . . You’ve owned my heart since you fell through the doorway at that fraternity party.”

She looked up and he saw her face broken in as many places as his heart. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him; she leaned away.

“Nick, go home to your family.”

“I can’t.”