Chapter 22: What I Saw in April

At dusk Miles walked her out to the Union lot and stopped beside the third light pole.

"This is where it was," he said. "Early April, a Tuesday, the week before the Ball, after seminar."

The lot was nearly empty. A sprinkler ticked on the far lawn.

"I came out to get my bike," Miles said. "Your father had your wrist."

Clara kept her eyes on the asphalt.

"He wasn't shouting. He was smiling, and you were saying, please, in a voice I'd never heard you use."

"I remember."

"You didn't see me. I was thirty feet away, and I couldn't move."

"He took your bag and went through it, and you let him."

"I always let him. It was faster."

"Then he left, and you stood there for a long minute. You looked like you were trying to disappear."

His voice cracked and he waited until it was steady.

"I went home and thought about thirty-five letters in your mailbox."

"I thought, she already has one man who takes things from her."

"I'm a second person who wants something from her every month."

"Miles."

"I thought it was a weight. I thought if I stopped, you could breathe."

"So you wrote that you didn't like me anymore."

"Yes."

"And you didn't ask me."

"No."

The sprinkler ticked.

She waited for the anger, and it came, and it was real.

"You decided for me," she said.

"You saw the worst day of my life and decided what I needed. You didn't ask."

"I know."

"That's what he does."

"I know." He did not flinch. "It's the worst thing I could have done. I'm not asking you to say it's fine."

"It isn't fine."

"No."

"Don't ever decide that for me again."

"I won't."

"Say it like you mean it."