My phone rings again, and I’m certain it’s Connor, calling to apologize.

He should be apologizing. To Walt, not me. Connor doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and he’s as bad as the people who judged me. Doesn’t he know you can’t judge a person based on what other people say about them?

“What?” I snap into the phone.

“Honey?” My mom’s voice is fuzzy and far-away sounding.

“Mom, sorry.” I switch the phone to my other ear and hold it up with my shoulder so I can wash my hands before I start cooking. “How are you?”

“We’re good. Your dad and I are good. How are you?”

“I’m…” I bite my lip, looking down at my hands and the towel I’m using to dry them. “Hanging in there.”

“Brynn? Are you sure?” Worry creeps into her voice.

She’s always worried, especially since what happened, but never enough to come home. They came right after the accident, but eventually they had to go back to Mexico. Their livelihood is there. When the press coverage became brutal, I was happy they were gone and didn’t have to see what I saw, but I wouldn’t mind a hug from my mom, or my dad ruffling my hair.

After that last letter, it’s imperative they stay gone.

“Mom, I promise, everything is good. I found a job and I’m saving my money. Everything is going according to plan.” When I first told her what I was going to do, she agreed I needed to find a new path. I guess that’s the bright side of having adventurous parents.

“A job? That’s great, honey. Where?”

I laugh softly. “You’ll never believe it, but I’m working with a handyman.”

She snorts disbelievingly.

“I know. It’s not quite what I’m trained for, but it pays cash.”

“Enough said.” She laughs. “It’s probably not the worst thing in the world for you to learn how to take care of things around a house. How is your boss?”

Connor… He’s a lot of things. Handsome, for starters. He’s better-looking than any of the men I met in clubs, and I’ve met more than my fair share. Connor doesn’t have to try, and I think that’s what makes him even more attractive. He has gentle eyes that crinkle when he’s trying to hear everything I’m not saying. I know how he holds back, how he tries to ask questions that aren’t intrusive, but will tell him something about me. Like I’m an orange that has already been emptied of juice, but maybe he can squeeze a bit harder for the last few drops.

“He’s okay,” I manage to say through all my thoughts. “Sometimes it’s hard not to say too much, you know?”

“I’m sure it is, especially for someone as personable and outgoing as you.”

I bark a bitter laugh. “You’re talking about someone who doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Hidden, maybe, but I bet she still exists.”

“Survival changes a person, Mom.” So does character assassination.

“Honey,” Mom breathes the word, her voice full of emotion.

The pain of it sweeps through me, thickening the base of my throat and filling my eyes. “Can we stop talking about this, please? Tell me about you and Dad.”

Swallowing, I will myself to calm down while my mom talks about their days fishing. She’s telling me a funny story about a woman who tried to wear wedges on their last tour, and how she refused to take them off when they told her the shoes wouldn’t be good for being on a boat.

“I think she was picturing cruising on a yacht, and she really should’ve listened, because she wasn’t too happy when she fell and got her white pants dirty.”

I laugh along with my mother, grateful for the distraction. My dad calls for her, his deep voice saying something about the next charter, and she tells me she needs to go. As much as I don’t want to, I tell her I love her and say goodbye.

I miss her more than ever right now, but I’m happy she and my dad are far away. I didn’t tell her about the last letter. In the beginning, when the first letter arrived, she begged me to tell the police what Eric Prince was doing. I refused. He’d already been through so much, how could I put him through more? He needed time to get over his suffocating anger.

The last letter was the push I needed to do what I should’ve done right after the accident and I was cleared of wrongdoing. Get the hell out of that place. In a handful of months, I’ll disappear, and Eric Prince will hopefully find his peace.

In the meantime, I’m going to learn how to make sour beef and dumplings, despite what Connor might have to say about it.

When I’m done cooking, I make my way over to Walt’s.

I’m only halfway up his front walk when he opens his front door. He’s wearing a gray newsboy cap and a frown.

“What do you want, Bryan?”

I stop in my tracks and point at him. “No sour beef for you.” Pivoting, I march through his yard. I’m not serious, but it won’t hurt for him to sweat.

“Wait, wait,” he calls after me.

I turn back around and raise one eyebrow at him. “You want to try that again?”

He releases a short, exasperated breath, but does what I’ve asked. “Hi, Brynn.” He says my name like he’s a teenager being forced to greet an old aunt who insists on kissing you right on the mouth.

I grin. “Much better. Come on.” I wave him my way. “I’m having you over for dinner.”

Walt fishes his keys from his pocket and locks his front door. Although he’s slow down the stairs, he’s still in good shape, both mentally and physically. It appears, anyway. What Connor told me earlier has been nagging at me. There has to be some truth to what he said, even if it was probably turned backward and inside out by the time he heard it. Similar to my case.

The truth: I ran over a mother and her infant in my car and killed them.

The lies: I was drunk and the mother wasn’t committing suicide.

Cassidy steps outside as we walk up.

“Brynn? Walt?”

Her astonishment is as plain as the color of dirt.

I wave. “Yep. Hi.”

She looks at Walt, her eyes growing wider, then back at me. I see her unease. I’ve seen it in myself enough times to recognize it in others.

“Everything okay?” she calls out, her hand finding the porch railing. She leans on it and keeps her gaze on us.

Walt rolls his eyes and makes an annoyed grunting sound.

“Everything is fine, Cassidy. Thanks for checking.” I send her a goodbye wave, and open the door for Walt. The aroma of vinegar, beef, and ginger wafts out.

He shuffles in and stops. “Sorry about that,” he says, turning back to me.

“It’s okay.” I shut the door and lock it. “But you do have some explaining to do.” I walk past him to the kitchen.

Walt follows. “It sure smells good in here.”

Opening the fridge, I pull out a pitcher of tea and set it on the counter. “No dodging, Walt. If we’re going to be friends, I need to know why people are wary of you.”

He leans a forearm on my kitchen counter and watches me move around. I take two plates from a cabinet, along with forks and knives, and set them at the small table against the wall. He tries to help me with the pitcher of tea, but I shoo him away. When everything is ready, I motion for him to sit down, and take the one opposite him, where the second setting is. Without a word, I fill his plate with his favorite food.

Loading his fork, he takes a bite, and I see his eyes close in pleasure as he begins to chew. “It’s just like Daisy used to make it.”

My eyes feel hot at the corners, and I have to blink back the sudden urge to cry. I take a bite too, finding it’s actually pretty good. The name doesn’t do the dish justice.

“How long were you and Daisy married?” I ask cautiously.

He takes another bite and wipes his mouth with a napkin from the stack at the center of the table. “Forty-six years,” he answers, taking a sip of his iced tea. “Daisy was a good woman. We’d only been married a year when I was called to Vietnam. She wrote me, and I wrote her. It wasn’t easy, you know? But we managed.” He shrugs and falls quiet. Maybe he thinks I don’t want to hear more about it, but I do.

“What else?” I ask. “Did you have kids?”

“Daisy became pregnant soon after I came back from the war, but she miscarried.” He shakes his head, remembering. “She was devastated. After what happened, they told her she couldn’t have children. It changed things between us for a while. She became withdrawn, and I was angry.” He looks up at me, eyes squinting. “Why am I telling you all this?”

I don’t think he’s trying to be rude, but his voice takes on that familiar growl.

“Because I asked, Walt, and I’m interested, but you don’t have to keep going if you don’t want to.”

Lifting his cap, Walt brushes his hands over his matted, sparse hair, and sets it back down. “Sorry,” he grumbles. “I don’t know why I do that.” He coughs, and I stay silent, waiting. “We had a hard time of it for a while. She even left me once, but I went and found her. She was at her sister’s house. She came home with me, and we were never apart again. Until she got sick, that is. After that, it was swift. Stage four, and all that.”

His eyes grow shiny, and I don’t ask anything more. I take his plate, which I’m certain is cold by now, and place it in the microwave.

“I’m sure you’ve heard from your boyfriend about what happened with that young girl,” he says while the food is heating. His gaze goes to his hands, folded on the table in front of him.

Behind me the microwave hums. “Connor is not my boyfriend, and yes, he told me about the girl, but I’d rather hear about it from you.”

He looks at me gratefully. “I don’t know what came over me that day. It was only a month since Daisy had died, but that’s no excuse. I could blame it on the war too. That kind of training never really leaves a person, but that would be an excuse also. The truth is, I just flipped a switch that day. She pulled up too close to me at a red light, and I stopped thinking and started acting.”

“Did you really say…those words to her?” The microwave beeps, penetrating the thickness in the air.

I take a few extra moments retrieving his food, but really I’m giving him the chance to answer without having my eyes on him. By now I know what he’s going to say, he doesn’t need me to watch him say it.

“I wish I could tell you no, but that wouldn’t be the truth.”

I take the steaming hot food to him. He thanks me as I place it in front of him.

“Everyone makes mistakes, Walt.” I gesture to the plate. “Eat.”

He takes a bite. “You’re awfully young to be so wise.”

“I’m not wise, not by a long shot. I do know that I’m not saying another word until you eat your favorite food while it’s hot.”

He obliges. When he finishes, we take our glasses and pitcher to Ginger’s outdoor table. Unlike Walt, Ginger’s table is in the yard, not on the porch. Each seat has throw pillows and the table has built-in cup holders.

When we get settled, he turns his shrewd eyes on me. “Are you ever going to tell me why you’re hiding?”

I look away, up to the tallest nearby pine, where a squirrel runs up the length of the trunk. “Who said I’m hiding?”

“It takes one to know one.”

I bring my knees into my chest and rest my chin on the crevice they form. “Walt, I had a good life, or what I thought was a good life. I see now that it was empty. Full of meaningless nights and friends, and then something happened.” I falter, my throat thickening as soon as the thought enters my brain. “Something really, really bad, and even though it wasn’t my fault, it felt like my fault. Then things got even worse. My whole life was torn apart, examined, and conclusions were drawn. I withstood it far longer than I should have. Finally I decided to leave it all behind.”

Walt is quiet, watching me. Could he possibly understand?

“So you came here?” he asks.

“For the time being.”

He nods once. “This is a stop along the way?”

“Um hmm.”

“Does your boyfriend know that?”

I look at him, irritated, and he gives the look right back to me. “I already told you, Connor is not my boyfriend. He can hardly stand me.” I know this to be untrue, but it’s important I tell myself this lie. It helps me keep him at arm’s length.

“Have you ever met a boss who picks up his employee for work, and takes them home at the end of the day?”

I shake my head, my lips moving into a small smile. “Do you spy every day, all day?”

Walt, for the first time since I met him, laughs. “There isn’t much for an old man to do.”

We chat for a little while longer, but not about heavy things. He tells me about Connor’s dad before he got sick, and I tell him about my parents’ business. He asks a lot of questions about deep sea fishing, most of which I cannot answer.

When his eyes begin to droop, I wrap up leftovers for him and walk him home.

Back at my place, I clean up the kitchen, get ready for bed, and double check the door alarms on both the front and back doors. I climb into bed, thinking of tonight and wish I’d thought to take Walt’s picture while he was here.

When I leave, I want to remember him.