I live in Whittier now and I’m the new harbormaster and I’m not married anymore. I know all about the baby and I’m not upset or angry with you. I understand. We were different then, just kids with screwed-up childhoods. But you were my best friend then and we are friends now. You’re amazing, Claire. Love, Tate

Wordless, I move to return his note card.

“Keep it. It was Alice’s idea to keep g . . . g-iving them to you. Since we’re new to your schedule, she thinks we should g . . . hand you one every time we see you. So you have a record of when you see us and maybe with . . . time”—he shrugs—“it sticks somehow.” He leans forward. “But it doesn’t have to. I w . . . w-ant to know you just as you are.”

My lips quirk up and I sit back, relaxed. “Did you just kind of quote Bridget Jones to me?”

“Well, yes, and it w . . . w-orked.” Tate smiles. “Just like Sefina said.”

“Worked?”

“It made you smile.”

My cheeks warm and I read his note card again. “You’re not married anymore.”

“Correct.” He looks down at his hands, nods. “At your graduation, I’m not . . . proud of it, Claire. I should have t . . . t-old you. But . . .” He looks up to meet my gaze, green eyes bright against his black hair. “And in some . . . ways this makes me a terrible person, but I’ve never regretted being with you that n . . . n-ight. Ever. I just wish I’d been honest about Maria.”

Hearing her name makes it real, and I shift back in my chair, wanting distance from him. I pull out my notebook, write this bit down because I want to remember that all we can ever be is friends. “How did you meet her?”

He sighs. “You know, I thought . . . when I left here that things would get magically better. Like the distance from my dad would be all I n . . . n-needed.” He gives a bitter laugh. “But I was just a stupid kid with no p . . . p-lan and no idea how truly hard things could be. I couldn’t get a job at first . . .” He stops, swallows, continues, “I couldn’t g . . . g-et through a single interview without stuttering so hard I nearly choked. My money ran out fast and things were . . . hard, and then I met Maria.” He waits while I write. “We . . . were both running from something. We were both alone. I was all she had.”

“Did you love her?” I whisper.

He looks out the window, seems to search for his answer in the snow and the waves. “I did. But n . . . n-ever in the way I loved you.”

My breath catches, and I return to my notes. Something in there that Ruth told me makes me pause. “My dad helped you?”