There’s an old song called “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” After this summer, I have a new appreciation for it.

I never heard from Brando again. But my time with him is seared on my soul, and I can’t seem to get past it. Any of it, the bad or the good.

Sometimes I wake up crying in the night. Other times, I dream that we’re making love, and it’s so beautiful, but then it ends and I remember what happened and the tears come again.

I’ve spent the summer volunteering for three different charities. They keep my mind off my troubles, keep me grounded in how very fortunate I am in most respects. During the day, they’re my sanity.

But when night comes, there’s nothing to stop my thoughts from going straight back to Brando.

I’ve told a few friends part of the story: I met a guy, it got really intense, and then we had a fight and broke up. I don’t tell anyone what happened that night. It feels wrong somehow, like a betrayal. As if my foolish, foolish heart can’t believe that man was really Brando.

My friends all say the same thing: start dating again. A new man is what I need to get past the one who hurt me. But I can’t bring myself to do that, either.

I left my heart in a cabin in the mountains, and I don’t know how to get it back again.

School starts next week. I’ve registered for classes, even though I can’t bring myself to care overmuch about the studies that used to excite me. But today, I made a vow.

Enough is enough. I’ll use being back on campus as the catalyst to finally get over Brando. I’ll get involved; I’ll start dating again.

By the time the school year is over, I’ll be back to being me.

Which is why I’m climbing into my car, about to meet Emily at the movie theater. She’s been a good friend, but I haven’t seen that much of her this summer because I spent all my time volunteering. I had to stay busy for my own sake, but now part of me wonders if I wasn’t also doing penance.

For what, I’m not sure.

There’s a long driveway that winds from my parents’ house to the street. As I near the end of it, I see a man wearing sunglasses, with a dog at his side, standing by the edge of the road. For a second, I think it’s Brando; he looks so much like him, with the same height, build, and hair.

My heart wrenches painfully in my chest. I can’t breathe. Then I remember: Brando doesn’t have a dog. I’m just imagining him here because I wish I could see him. Because I’m pathetic.

The man and his dog walk across the driveway and stop right in front of my car, making me slam on the brakes. Maybe it’s a blind man and his guide dog, but shouldn’t he be able to hear me? And shouldn’t the dog be urging him forward, out of my way?

He’s facing me now. He takes off his dark glasses — and it is Brando.

For a moment, I’m stunned, immobile, and then I move without thinking. I put the car in park and get out, moving toward him … but I stop several feet away.

“What are you doing here?” Even as I speak, my eyes are cataloging his appearance. He looks the same, and yet not. Older, somehow, and sadder … but more at peace.

Or maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part.

“I wanted — I needed — to see you.”

He sounds different, too. The easy confidence that seemed so much a part of him is not gone, exactly, but muted.

I wrap my arms around my torso. “And you needed to risk being run over to see me?”

“Yes.” There’s no hint of humor anywhere in his demeanor. “Sasha, what I did to you was hideous and there’s no excuse for it.”

I swallow hard. “Why did you do it?”

“Because I was terrified.” His voice is raw.

“Of what?”

“Hurting you.”

Tears fill my eyes as he continues. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I was a ticking time bomb. I had to send you away to keep you safe. The only way to make you leave was to make you hate me.”

I manage a quavery smile. “You didn’t make me hate you.”

“That …” He draws a deep breath. “Is better than I deserve.”

The dog, a yellow lab, has been sitting quietly at his feet all this time. Brando gestures to him and says, “This is Kiko. He’s a service dog.”

A service dog. For the first time in months, things start to make sense. “What kind?”

“For PTSD.” I nod, and he goes on. “I lost friends over there, in terrible ways. IEDs. I dealt with it by not dealing with it, pouring myself into the restaurant. But I’d have flashbacks, nightmares, anxiety attacks.”

“And Kiko helps with that?”

“Yeah. He can recognize an anxiety attack when it’s just getting started, help me change my focus, stop it in its tracks. And he’ll wake me up if I’m having a nightmare.”

It’s not lost on me that this is a big deal, this conversation we’re having. Brando has sought me out to confess. To bare his soul. To make amends.

The least I can do is be equally honest.

I take a step toward him. “I haven’t been myself since I left. I thought I was never going to be myself again.”

He looks stricken; I shake my head quickly. “Not because of — what happened. Because of you.” My voice cracks. “I missed you, Brando. I couldn’t stop missing you.”

“Sasha.” He closes his eyes for a long moment, and when he opens them again there’s a glimmer of his old self showing through. “I’ve been working with Kiko for weeks. I had to be sure I was safe before I contacted you. That I could promise you what happened would never happen again.”

The last of my reserve melts away, and I rush toward him. He meets me halfway; his arms come around me, gently, so gently. As if I might break any moment.

Laying a hand on his cheek, I tell him, “I need you to know I’m not fragile.”

His mouth quirks up. “That’s what Dante said.”

“Dante?” I don’t understand. He’s one of the cousins I met that night at the restaurant, but I don’t think I talked to him much longer than to say hello.

“I have a lot to tell you. I know you were going somewhere, but maybe we could meet up later.”

I smile at him. “I just need to send a quick text, and then maybe we can go get coffee?”

Right before my eyes he gets younger, as some of the strain and care that’s lined his face eases. He smiles back. “Yeah.”

A breeze ruffles our hair, and I imagine it sweeping away the debris of our mutual pain, making room for healing. For the first time in months, life seems full of hope.