There were four corner houses. One had an upended pink bicycle in the driveway, and in the front yard of another, a tire swing hung from a tree. She looked at the remaining two houses—one boxy and yellow with a large white porch and two giant maple trees, and the other a two-storied Colonial with boxes full of geraniums in the windows. It had to be the yellow one. She stood on the sidewalk and felt her anger begin to drain. Even if she did spew some kind of tirade, so what? It wouldn’t change anything. She would still have betrayed Mary, and he would still have hurt them both. She felt her heart begin to race, and she stretched her hands hard, trying to regain some of that intense anger, but all she could think of were bus routes. If she walked down Juniper she could catch a bus to Wedgewood, and then it was only a two-block walk to the Griffins’. But she had come all this way, and she didn’t have her house keys, and Mary was probably gone by now. He probably wasn’t even home, and before she could decide one way or another, he stepped onto the porch. He was wearing a deep blue shirt and tan shorts, and he held a black umbrella in his hand.

“Josie,” he said.

“Oh, God,” she mumbled.

“What are you doing? It’s pouring rain.”

She couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and when he told her to come inside, she felt stuck to the sidewalk, and he had to walk all the way over to her, place his hand on her back, and usher her into the house.

“What are you doing? You’re soaked,” he said. “Stay here.”

She stood dripping in the entryway and looked at the dark living room. There was a couch and two armchairs and a blue area rug and an abstract painting above the fireplace. She had expected his house to be full of dark, muted colors—rugs and pillows draping over each other, incense and spices filling the rooms, all ancient romance. He brought her an oversized towel and wrapped her in it, and she felt so small, she thought she might disappear under his hands.

“What in the world were you doing?” he asked.

She wanted to be angry, to be the “hateful thing” her mother often called her when she lost her temper and turned violent, but all she could manage was something about a walk and rain and an unexpected turn of events.

“Well, you’re soaked,” he said and put his hands to her cheeks and lifted her face, “and freezing.” His palms felt warm on her skin, and she wanted to close her eyes and give in to his hands, but she steadied herself and turned her face away.

“I’m fine,” she said. He took a step back, and she felt a small pull in her chest.