“You can stop pretending that tastes good,” I said.
She glanced at me. “I’m trying to be optimistic.”
“That dessert has no relationship with optimism.”
“It’s cherry.”
“It’s red.”
She laughed softly.
Then silence returned.
After a while, she set the cup aside.
“Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you doing this because you feel responsible?”
The question was inevitable.
I had been waiting for it.
“No,” I said.
She studied me carefully.
“I feel responsible for some things,” I continued. “For leaving without really looking at what was happening. For not being present. For letting my own grief become an excuse to disappear. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Thenwhy?”
I looked at her.
“Because when I saw you in that hallway, I realized the divorce ended a legal marriage, not what you mean to me.”
Her eyes glistened.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say the night before surgery.”
