I reached over and pulled him against me, awkwardly, across the gearshift. He was six feet tall now. His head knocked against the rearview mirror. He let me hold him anyway.
That night, Greg called.
He called my cell. I didn’t know he had the number. I found out later that Sam had given it to him weeks before, just in case.
I let it ring four times. Then I answered.
“Laura. It’s Greg.” A pause. “Thank you for picking up.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you. Just talk. Not about anything you don’t want to talk about. Anywhere you want. Anytime you want.” Another pause. “I owe you that. I owe you a lot more than that.”
I agreed to meet him on Saturday morning at the Bluebird Diner on Main Street. Neutral ground. Bright lights. Lots of people.
He was already there when I arrived, in a booth by the window, with a cup of black coffee in front of him. He stood up when he saw me. He didn’t try to hug me. He waited until I sat down before he sat back down himself.
