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“You came over here!” I said. I could hear myself and I hated it. I was picking a fight, needing him to get mad.

You’re sabotaging this.

It was Joe’s voice, but it was mine, too.

I didn’t mean for that to sound so harsh. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Michelle,” he said, making a fist against the wood. “I’m the one who wanted you to stay on the phone with me last night. I’m the one who couldn’t go anywhere but here. So really—this is my fault.”

“It’s not,” I said. “Truly. I thought I could do this but…”

“But you’re not over your dead husband.”

The words were like a gunshot in the air.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I am,” I said. My voice sounded defensive. Petty. “I’ve done all the therapy. The groups. It’s been six fucking years, I’m over it.”

I knew, with those words, that it sounded like I was very much not over it.

Pinching my lips, I looked out at the snow. He wasn’t allowed to tell me I wasn’t over Joe. That was for me to decide. I gripped the coffee mug so hard I was surprised it didn’t shatter.

“Listen,” Will said. “It’s for the best, okay? Me, thinking I could have something like this, it was foolish. I should have known that from the beginning.”

“It’s not your fault—”

Will ran a hand over his head. “It’s fine. I actually have to get to work.”

Time had slipped away from me. I didn’t even know it was a weekday.

“How?” I gestured outside. I wanted to laugh, but I knew it would come out sounding completely unhinged.

“The roads are clear—I just need a shovel to get my car out. You need your walk shoveled anyway, right? How else are your parents going to get up here?”

The fact that he remembered didn’t soften my anger. It only cut deeper, the edge of it sharp as a knife.

“There’s a shovel on the back porch,” I said.

“Okay. Good.” But he didn’t move. Instead, he ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Did you want to take some pictures first?”

For a moment I didn’t understand what he meant. Then I remembered: the blog. He was keeping the deal, even now. Taking posed romantic photos was the last thing I felt like doing right now.

It felt desperate. Cheap.

But I’d be an idiot to pass up the opportunity, wouldn’t I?

“Right,” I said. I was discombobulated. What the hell was I going to take a picture of? Did I really want to immortalize this moment?

Then I remembered the coffee in my hand. I thrust it at him. “Hold this.”

I picked up my phone. There was a new text on there. I swiped it open—it was my mom; they were on their way. I opened my mouth to tell Will, then shut it again. Why had I had the urge to tell him? There was nothing between us.

Then I framed Will’s hands in the shot. I remember being surprised how rough his hands were for a man who put out only figurative fires. He’d said it was from the regular work he did on Hank and Casey’s farm.Keeps me feeling useful,he said, as if he wasn’t useful in his job, or as a father. Or as a constant savior for me.

What the hell had I done? What was I doing?

For a moment I could feel his palms on me, the way they’d felt cupping my cheek. Gripping my ass. Holding my breasts while his tongue flicked at my—