“You remembered.”
“Yes.”
She looked at my bag.
“Blueberry?”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“We used to order the same thing.”
“I know.”
“Now we don’t.”
“No.”
She opened her bag.
Then hesitated.
“Claire?”
“What?”
“Do you ever wish the dental clinic hadn’t called?”
The question surprised me.
I considered lying.
Instead:
“Sometimes.”
She nodded slowly.
“That hurts.”
“I know.”
“But sometimes I’m glad they did.”
She looked up.
“Both are true.”
Her eyes filled.
“Okay.”
I continued:
“I’m glad you’re alive.”
“I’m angry you stayed gone.”
“I love you.”
“I don’t trust you completely.”
“I want you in my life.”
“I don’t want the old version of us back.”
She nodded.
“All of that?”
“All of it.”
She wiped one eye.
Then laughed.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
We ate.
Two different pastries.
Two separate bags.
For ten years, I believed healing meant learning how to live with Lily’s absence.
