Another nod, slower this time, like he thinks I’m a wild animal, about to run away or attack. I don’t know. I can’t focus and I can’t identify enough clues to connect the dots. I breathe in, remind myself of who I am now. A broken woman with no memory and no life. Frozen in the present. I have no right to be angry with Tate. Not anymore. I try to smile but it slips away. “I’m happy for you, Tate, really happy for you. She seems like a lovely girl.”

His eyes are soft and pained, and I don’t want to stand here a minute longer. “Thanks for . . . um . . .” I don’t know what we’re doing standing in the parking lot. “Oh.”

“We went skiing.” His voice is strained.

“Skiing. Okay, I’m uh . . .” I can’t finish because I need to be away from him. I need to be alone. I walk away, a sob trapped inside. You’re better off alone. You’re better off alone. A mantra I repeat all the way home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I’m lying on my bed, reading fragmented thoughts captured inside the pages of my notebook. Tate had a daughter with his wife. His daughter is Maree, the girl you give guitar lessons to. A sinking feeling makes me question what I should already know. Was he keeping it from me? The shock I feel battles with a genuine happiness that Tate is a father. I always knew he’d make an incredible one.

There’s a knocking on my door that I ignore, and I stay on my bed with an arm slung across my eyes. I just want to go to sleep. But the door opens to Ruth’s voice.

“Claire?”

“Back here,” I call, keeping my eyes covered, too damn tired to pretend I’m not upset.

“It’s open-mic night tonight. Did you forget?”

I slide my arm away, give her a look. “Hah,” I say, and turn on my side with my back to Ruth.

“You’re still in your ski clothes?”

“Tate is a father.”

I feel the bed move when Ruth sits, her hand on my shoulder. “He wanted to tell you. I think he wanted to find the right time.”

I flip over, meet her gaze. “Did you ever tell me?”

She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t think it was my place.”

I add it to my notebook, not disagreeing with Ruth’s decision. It really wouldn’t have been her place to tell me. I breathe in and sit up, trying to ignore the pounding in my temples. “Where are we going?”

From the living room booms Harriet’s voice. “Open mic at the bar tonight.”

Ruth stands. “I think one of your guitar students is playing.”

I bite my lip, wonder how many guitar students I have, decide to let the question go and get ready instead.