“Oh, Claire, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you w . . . w . . . w . . .” He pauses as though what he’s trying to say is stuck to the inside of his mouth like peanut butter. “That you’re here,” he says finally, and it’s all so familiar that it warms me instantly.

From the floor comes the squawking of Mrs. Johnson. Without breaking eye contact, Tate picks up the phone, replaces it to his ear. “I’ll be up t . . . t-omorrow morning to take care of the flies. Okay? Yes . . . you’re welcome. See you in the morning.” He presses end and stands awkwardly between the door and the desk, seeming unsure of what to do next.

I’m staring at him and I can’t seem to stop, but I also have no idea what to say, and I’m not even sure where I am or how much time has passed since I told him goodbye with my clothes clutched in a ball against my bare chest. Except he’s different, touched by the passing of time in a way I cannot feel, but I can see. I have to place a hand on the desk behind me to steady myself. The Tate I remember was a lankier version of the man in front of me now, but his eyes are very familiar, green like the deep glacier waters that embrace the coast. Suddenly, I am catapulted back to the graduation ceremony my mother ruined, when Tate surprised me by showing up. I hadn’t heard a word from him since he’d left Whittier when we were eighteen. But that night I was at a bar with friends after the ceremony, trying to laugh away the spectacle my mother had made, drinking a beer that tasted like sawdust and pasting an armored smile on my face to hide the desolation I felt inside. He’d come up behind me and whispered in my ear.

Hi, Claire.

I’d whipped around, and seeing him chinked my armor, made the tears spill down my cheeks until I was sobbing. Without a word, he’d grasped my hand and led me outside, taking me to a diner around the corner, where we drank cheap coffee, ate late-night eggs and hash browns, and talked about everything and nothing at all. I had to see you graduate, Claire. I’m so p . . . p-roud of you. The years since he’d left had melted and I’d stopped thinking about what had happened with my mom and let myself relax, and before I knew it, I was waking up in his hotel bed.

A sinking feeling reminds me of who I am and pulls me back to reality. I can’t see Tate right now. And then a horrible thought wiggles its way to the surface. Did Dad call him? I try to move past him, but the office is too small, and he gently grasps my arm to stop me.