The morning had become an accidental doorway.
Walking away again felt impossible.
Clare said, "I'm staying at the Green Mountain Inn."
"For how long?"
"Five days."
Dean nodded.
"Okay."
She waited.
He said nothing.
Clare smiled faintly.
"That's all?"
"What do you want?"
"I don't know."
"Apparently we're both bad at plans."
She stepped closer.
"Have dinner with me."
Dean looked toward Evan.
Clare immediately added:
"Both of you."
Evan's face appeared at the open truck window.
"I like pasta."
Dean closed his eyes.
Clare laughed.
"Seven?"
He looked at her.
Every reasonable part of him said no.
Too fast.
Too complicated.
Anna.
Evan.
Nine years.
London.
A phone call.
A life.
Clare waited.
Dean said, "Six thirty."
She smiled.
"Okay."
He opened the truck door.
Then Clare said:
"Dean."
He turned.
She looked nervous suddenly.
More nervous than when stranded.
"I really did try."
He knew what she meant.
The call.
London.
Coming back.
He nodded.
"I believe you."
Her shoulders dropped.
That answer seemed to matter more than dinner.
At four that afternoon, Dean almost canceled.
Three times.
Evan stopped him the third.
They were at Dean’s sister's house in Dorset.
Megan Sullivan stood at her kitchen island listening while Dean explained badly.
She had known Clare in college.
Had hated her for leaving.
Then defended her years later because Megan enjoyed inconsistency.
When Dean finished, Megan stared.
"Let me understand."
"No."
"You stopped for a broken car."
"Yes."
"It was Clare."
"Yes."
"Clare Clare."
"There is only one."
"She called you four years ago."
"Apparently."
"Anna answered."
"Yes."
"Clare thought you had chosen the perfect life and stayed away."
"Pretty much."
"You told her about Anna."
"Yes."
"And now you're taking Clare to dinner."
"With Evan."
Megan looked toward the living room.
Evan was playing with her dog.
Then back.
"Dean."
"What?"
"You are absolutely going."
He frowned.
"Why?"
"Because you've spent three years pretending being a good widower requires being emotionally dead."
His face hardened.
"That's not fair."
"No."
"But it's true."
Dean looked away.
Megan softened.
"I loved Anna too."
He nodded.
"She was my friend."
"I know."
"Do you remember what she said at the hospital?"
Dean's throat tightened.
"No."
"Liar."
He did.
Anna, weak from treatment, had pulled Megan close while Dean slept in a chair.
She thought Dean could not hear.
Don't let him make my death his excuse.
Dean had never told Megan he heard.
Megan continued.
"She knew you."
"I know."
"So go to dinner."
Dean whispered:
"It feels wrong."
"Because it's Clare?"
"Because it feels good."
Megan stared.
"Oh, Dean."
He looked toward her.
"Grief trained you badly."