In the brief, painful seconds of silence that followed, Mrs. Salas, Marian, Jonah, Benny—all of them—might’ve dropped their eyes in awkward, embarrassed surprise. But Nora didn’t know, because Nora couldn’t look away from Will. She watched as his expression transformed: fierce, pushed-to-the-limit defensiveness to blinking, Did I say that out loud? shock.

And then to shamed, desperate regret.

“I guess I’d better get to work,” he repeated, and it sounded like a repetition, a robotic sort of malfunction, like these were the only words available to him. He didn’t take the photograph; he didn’t look anyone in the eye. He simply turned and walked away, and Nora and her neighbors watched him go, no one uttering a word until the door closed behind him.

Jonah was the first to break the silence. “You sure stepped in it there, Corrine.”

“In fairness,” Marian said, “I stepped in it first, I’m pretty sure, saying he should invite them over.”

“We should apologize, or—”

“I’ll go talk to him,” Nora said, reaching out to take the picture, and it was strange, what happened next—each of her assembled neighbors asking her to convey a message, so different from all those weeks ago.

Please tell him—

If you could let him know—

I’m sorry I didn’t understand—

When she finally made her way inside, the picture held gently between her thumb and forefinger, she wondered if she’d have to knock. But she was encouraged by the fact that Will seemed to know she would come, the door to his place left open a crack. When she pushed it open slowly, she saw he was in the kitchen, his back to her as he unloaded supplies from his bucket, his shoulders set with tension.

“Will?”

He stilled briefly and then turned, his eyes going immediately, unerringly, to the photo she held at her side. When he looked back at her, she could tell the effort he was making—every line of his face, his body, looked so carefully arranged.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I overreacted, I know.”

“You didn’t.” She knew he didn’t, even if she didn’t know all the details about his parents. She knew enough. She knew that whatever he saw in that photo represented everything painful to him about the way they’d been together, about the way they would’ve let him go.

He nodded toward the couch, where the battered book rested. “You can go ahead and put the photo back in there. I’ll take care of it later.”

Take care of it, she could tell, did not mean putting it somewhere safe. It had sort of a Let me tie cement to it and throw it in the lake energy.