Chapter 13: One Bag

My flight to Nashville left at noon on Tuesday, and on Monday night I was still packing when the doorbell rang.

It rang twice, then once more, short and unsure.

Bridget got to the door before I reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Claire," she called up. "There's a man on my porch who looks like he's yours."

"He's not mine," I said, and then I saw him over her shoulder.

Rupert stood under the porch light in a thin jacket with a gym bag hanging from one hand.

It was October in Chicago, and he had no coat.

His shoes were soaked through, and his hair hadn't seen a comb all day.

"I know you don't want to see me," he said.

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I have nowhere else to go, and I have something true to tell you."

Bridget folded her arms over her green apron.

"You can tell it in my kitchen," she said, "where I can see your hands."

He sat at the table with the bag between his feet and one shoe through the strap.

Bridget put a mug of tea in front of him and stayed at the stove with a wooden spoon.

"How did you get here?" I asked.

"I flew. I sold my watch at the airport to pay for the ticket."

He turned his wrist over, and there was a pale stripe on it where the watch had been.

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