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“Life, I guess.”

“Life?”

What was I supposed to tell her? That I’d gotten scared? That all the things my dad used to say to me about how I just wanted to be a hotshot for not working at the garage got in my head? “I guess I discovered I could do just as much good working in the background running the operations.”

Michelle nodded. She didn’t believe me.

A flicker of anger hit me. I didn’t have to tell her my life story. How had she gotten me to talk about this anyway? No one had before. Not even Jill.

We’d reached the steps of my house. I jammed my key in the lock. “Why do you care anyway?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, I could be perfectly happy doing this job. Why does it matter if I’m not?”

Fire hit her eyes now. “So, you’re not happy.”

“I am—I…” Goddammit. How had she done that? How had this turned into talking about me and my long-dead dreams?

“I spent a lot of years focusing on my family,” I said finally. “Trying to save a failing marriage. It takes a lot out of someone.”

Michelle held her hands up. “I’m not trying to give you a hard time, Will. But… you asked me about my blog, if it makes me happy. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, that’s all.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. This was going to shit. “I’m sorry.”

Michelle smiled a little sadly. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t, but I didn’t know how to extricate myself from this mess. This was what I did apparently. I fucked up.

“Maybe you could show me around?” Michelle asked, putting on a smile.

I didn’t fucking deserve her. She was perfect and kind and I was not.

“Sure,” I said, my voice tight.

We spent the next few minutes touring the house. She seemed genuinely interested in all the details my girls rolled their eyes at when I talked to guests about them. The original wainscoting. The lead panes in the study on the main floor.

“It looks like a beautiful place to have raised a family,” Michelle said as we headed back toward the stairs after a quick run-through of the second floor.

“It was.” Or it would have been if I hadn’t messed things up so badly. What I wouldn’t give to get a second shot.

It was only after that thought that I realized Michelle hadn’t followed me down the stairs. She’d stopped to examine a photo from the wall of them lining the stairway.

“Is this your family?” she asked.

I came back up, stopping just below her.

She was looking at a framed photo of us, one of those Sears portraits, taken when I was around thirteen.

“Yeah,” I said. Stella had given me, Hank, and Dad the same photo for Christmas a couple of years ago. I’d tried to get rid of it, but Hannah had gotten mad at me when she’d found it in the trash and hung it up. I’d almost forgotten it was there.

The boys—Dad, Hank, and I—looked less than thrilled to be there. Dad especially. He was actually frowning—a storm cloud next to Mom’s bright and sunny smile.

Looking at Mom made my chest hurt.

“Oh my god, look at little Hank!” Michelle said.

Hank must have been around eleven. He looked like he’d rather be outside; like he’d been wrangled into his suit—one of the lapels was sticking out and I could see the metal glinting from his clip-on kid tie.