Hallie brushed her bangs out of her eyes, reminding Colleen of the time her sister cut her bangs to the roots in the mistaken belief that this meant she would not have to grow them out. She’d been six maybe? “It matters to me,” Hallie said. “I want you to say it all. And I want you to let me say things, too. You didn’t reply to one letter or text or e-mail. I don’t even know if you read them. But I have things I really want to say, that I want you to understand.”

“You said all you needed to say when you married Walter. When you said, ‘I do,’ you said enough.”

Hallie slammed her hand on the bar. Old Mr. Brown turned toward them and Mrs. Baxley, the librarian just joining her book club, took a few steps toward them and then seemed to think better of it. The historical society guy stared up at the TV as if he didn’t hear or see a thing. Hallie continued, unaware of anyone else in the bar. “You can be self-righteous if you want, but you made choices, too. And not one of them had to do with love.”

“Are you serious? Is Walter telling you to say these things? Is he totally in control of that head of yours? My God, you betrayed me in the most embarrassing way one can, and you have the nerve to say I made choices?” Colleen tried to lower her voice, but it rose anyway.

“You chose. You ran. You didn’t listen. If you had cared about either of us at all, you would have at least . . .”

“At least what, Hallie?”

“I don’t know. But not cut us off. You left the people you loved the most and rode off on your white high horse.”

“From what I remember, I drove away in my beat-up Volkswagen ashamed and humiliated and heartbroken. Not quite the same thing as a white horse.”

“I know.” Hallie closed her eyes. “We’ll never see eye to eye again. I hoped for so long. I prayed even. But what I broke can’t be fixed. I see that. All we can do now is help Dad. Do our very best to put it aside, not let the volcanoes inside us erupt every time we get together.”

“You’re not the same,” Colleen said in a low voice, taking a step toward Hallie. “You don’t sound real; just spouting all the things you think you should say like a programmed robot.”

“Of course I’m not the same. How could I be? And you . . . you not speaking to me for so long? It broke something in me.”

“And you don’t think you shattered something in me?” The anger felt fresh and vivid now; it was awakened and appearing as a fire from far, far below.