His smile touches his eyes. “Yeah, he called out of the blue. I have no idea how he g . . . g-ot my number. I had a job at a lumber mill by then, was sharing a crappy apartment with Maria. Vance sent me money after that—not much, but enough to keep me g . . . g-oing. Kept encouraging me to . . . go to a community college, helped me figure out student loans, vouched for me.”

As I write I feel a warmth envelop me. None of it surprises me, but all of it touches me deeply.

“Here’s your iced teas.” I look up, startled to see my mother dressed all in black, like a waiter. She sets an iced tea in front of me—along with a note card—smiles, and walks away. I read the note card, notice there’s a number written in the upper right-hand corner.

“The . . . numbers are so you can easily keep track of how often you’ve run into Alice or me.” He points to another note card on my place mat, this one from him, with the number one written in the corner. “Technically, we’ve seen each other multiple t . . . t-imes before this, but since this is my first note card, I’m starting with one.”

I take several sips of tea, check my notes. “What happened with Maria?”

“We grew apart, w . . . w-anted different things.” There’s an intensity to his gaze that I don’t understand. “She had her own demons, and things with her became . . . too familiar, and I wasn’t about to put anyone through that. I tried to help, but she—once everything happened, she left, I think because she understood.”

“Understood what?”

“That I still love you.”

I’m grateful for the distraction of my notebook right then because the speed of my pulse is affecting my breathing and makes my face warm and cold at the same time.

Tate continues, “And now I’m here. Eighteen years . . . too late, of course.”

I look up. His smile sends goose bumps down my arms.

“I’m sorry it took me so long, Claire. The time just never seemed right, not w . . . w-ith my father still living here or Maria . . .” He shakes his head, touches my hand. “Until now.”

I want to twine my fingers through his, pull him to me, feel his lips on mine, because being with him again, sitting so close our knees keep brushing under the table, I understand that I’ve never stopped loving him. Not even a little. And he’s sitting here telling me he loves me, telling me he’s back and looking at me like we can pick up exactly where we left off. A space inside my chest fills with hope. Could Tate still love me in the way he used to? I squeeze the plastic pen in my hand, touch the smoothness of the notebook paper. Like this?