This was that moment. And it was nothing like she had imagined, because it was entirely real, which meant it was messier and quieter and more ordinary-looking than any version she had constructed in her mind — a man in a lumberyard with sawdust on his sleeves and a cold bottle of Sprite in his hand, remembering cold hands and a door he couldn’t find again.
“I didn’t stop,” she told him. “I never stopped.”
He said nothing for a while. He just stood there with her hands on his face.
Then he said: “I know.”
