Evan Hart.
Not Mr. Hart. Not Evan. My full name, careful and deliberate.
“Rachel,” I called again, but this time my voice sounded different.
She stopped at the curb without turning around. The stroller’s front wheels bumped against the brick edge of the path.
One of the children made a small questioning sound, and Rachel reached down to touch the child’s hair with a tenderness that made something inside me ache.
Noelle came up behind me, breathless and confused. “Evan, what is happening?”
I couldn’t answer her. I was staring at Rachel’s back, at the narrow line of her shoulders beneath her faded blue cardigan.
Four years ago, I had imagined that back turning away from me a thousand times. I had imagined her choosing someone else, leaving the city, forgetting me quickly and completely.
I had built a whole explanation out of grief because it was easier than admitting I didn’t understand anything.
