“It’s not what you think, Claire. I’m helping Jory, and I need to get her home, okay? I’ll stop by this afternoon.” They walk away, passing a little girl, who hops up in the air with a wave at the pair before heading in my direction.

“Ms. Claire! Hi!” She’s dressed in a thick pink winter coat, mittens, and a hat that sits high on her forehead to accommodate her large cat-eye glasses. “It’s me, Maree, from guitar lessons and quiet activity time, and—oh, hi, Daddy! What are you guys doing here?”

I turn around but all I see is Tate smiling at the girl, who runs to hug him around his legs.

My body turns cold, too heavy to move even though I want to run.

Tate leans down to pick her up, but his eyes flick toward me, the corners pulled down in a worried slant. “You’re supposed to be at the playground, Maree. I can see Ms. Kiko doesn’t look very happy.”

“Oh, yikes! Okay, see you after school! Bye!”

Suddenly, I’m thrust back in time, standing in a hotel room, shirt clutched to my bare chest, face wet. I’m . . . married, Claire. Her n . . . n-ame is Maria. I’m sorry. I should have t . . . t-old you. I love you. I’ll always love you. You know that, right? I’d run, not wanting to hear his excuse, afraid that nobody would ever love me enough to stay.

I look from the girl to Tate, see the resemblance in her dark hair, the shape of her nose.

Tate is looking at me, and he seems . . . afraid? As though he’s worried that, what? I can’t figure it out, so I reach for my notebook, but I don’t have my bag or my phone, and I’m wearing leggings and a long-sleeved shirt, ski socks tight on my calves, and despite the clothing I am naked and vulnerable, an interloper in lives I have no right to be a part of. I back away, hope that he will just let me go.

The little girl hops down from her father’s arms and waves at me. “Bye, Ms. Claire!” She spins around and jogs backward to add, “I’m Maree from guitar lessons and when you volunteer and stuff!” With another wave, she turns and runs to the playground.

“Claire,” Tate says, gentle but firm.

I stare at the ground, shiver, realize I’m standing in the parking lot of BTI without a coat. A cold wind bites through my cotton top, and I wrap my arms across my body. Tate is married.

As if he reads my mind, he says, “I’m not married anymore, Claire. It was over a long time ago.”

“Her name is Maria,” I say.

He nods.

“And Maree is your daughter.”