The next day, Kate came tearing up the driveway at the Parker farm in her little red MGB, her blond hair waving behind her like a flag as the car flew in and out of the potholes. Walter was outside changing the oil on his truck, his smile fading as she got closer and he could see the anger on her face. “Frances Halliday?” she yelled before she even stopped the car. “Frances goddamn Halliday?” She slammed the car into park and jumped out, standing in the driveway a few feet away from him as though she couldn’t physically come any closer, as though her anger was a force field keeping everything hurtful away.

Walter felt his whole body take the impact of that anger, and he recoiled in surprise, blood rushing to his head, adrenaline spiking in his extremities. He took a deep breath and forced himself to turn away from Kate, sticking his head back underneath the hood of his truck. “Billy Hamilton,” he said calmly, his voice echoing through the engine. “Todd Westin. Joe Leonetti. Paul Wachowski. Jimmy Medina.” The names tumbled out. Well, who cares? he thought. She doesn’t have any right. His hands were shaking and his vision was blurry – he was so upset that he couldn’t tell what anything was, or remember what anything was called, so he just felt around blindly, pretending to tighten the thingamajig, fiddle with the whatsamabob, waiting for Kate to respond. He could hear her behind him, breathing hard, could feel the tension and anger radiating from her, and for a moment he wondered if she would slam the hood down on his head. A part of him actually hoped she would.

Instead, she went back to her car, and Walter raised his head just in time to see her drive away, her blond curls flying out behind her. He didn’t see her again for over a year. A year without a single word from her, with nothing but the image of her driving away burned into the back of his eyelids, haunting him every night as he fell asleep. Until one brilliant spring morning when he opened the door of his apartment and there was Kate, in a long white cotton dress and wild roses in her hair. She looked thinner than she had when she left, and her hair was darker, her skin a bit more sallow. But in her eyes was a light, a spark of the little Katie Babiak who had jumped the creek every spring, all energy and fireworks and joy.

“Walter Parker,” she said. “Will you marry me?”

And for once, Walter didn’t wait. Not a single heartbeat.

—