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We were nearly to the door when Travis’s voice rang out. “I’d like to hearyourstory sometime, Indy. Whenever you’re ready.”

My story? I didn’t even know where it began. WhereIbegan. Or which version of me was the right one. I was different yet the same, changing by the decade while somehow not changing at all. Having perspective on my lives didn’t mean I had a grasp of them. They were gapped and cracked with fissures so wide I could fall into them and be more lost than I ever was.

Leading Loren down the hall, I glanced at the braided strip of sweater thread around my wrist. That fragile tether held me together, but my pieces had jagged edges, and they were swiftly cutting through. Cutting me and Loren. Tearing us apart.

So, I cinched my grip around Loren’s elbow as he stepped ahead to open the door out of the community center.

I felt the need to say any of the things I should have said instead of making a menace of myself the last few days coopedup in the trailer. But, when I opened my mouth, meaningful words escaped me.

“You wanna get something to eat?” I asked, echoing Travis’s offer to me the last time I’d been here.

“Sure,” Loren replied.

My heart fluttered. I could have hugged him for that one word. For showing up here uninvited. Because sobrietywasfucking hard, and I didn’t want to do it alone.

We walked down the street, bathed in lamplight. After a few blocks, Loren slid his arm free of my grasp and took my hand instead. He didn’t say anything and kept his attention fixed ahead, but damn it if he didn’t keep coming back for me. Lifetime after lifetime. Fuckup after fuckup.

Without any kind of discussion, we somehow agreed on a place to eat. We ducked into a little ice cream parlor about half a mile from the community center. It was a family-owned joint we’d frequented over the years. Besting Baskin Robbins by offering thirty-twoflavors.

Inside, the walls above the white beadboard were pink and adorned with sprinkle decals in every shade of the pastel rainbow. The air smelled like freshly cooked waffle cones. Round tables and chairs were arranged down the long edge of the rectangular space, and the linoleum tile floor squeaked under my trainers.

I pressed my sweaty palm against Loren’s as we stepped up to the counter and perused the freezer cabinet. The flavors ranged from ordinary to extreme and came in a rainbow of colors.

I could have recited Loren’s order from my shiny, new memory. He was unfailingly predictable, and it made me grin when he told the employee exactly what I knew he would.

“One scoop of butter pecan in a cup, please.”

Since the 1960s. Butter pecan. Thirty-two fabulous flavors, and he went for the one going freezer-burnt and forgotten by everyone under the age of sixty. God, I loved him.

Forever the opposite, I tried something new. Coconut Cream Extreme in a chocolate-dipped waffle cone. Loren paid, then we made our way to a two-seater table where we scooted in until our knees knocked into each other.

Loren worked through his ice cream in small bites, dodging my gaze despite sitting directly across from me. I licked around the top of my cone, catching drips and nibbling on strips of coconut. It was like a date. A strained, silent date, and I found myself needing to talk again. Pop the bubble of quiet and let out everything inside.

I could have started with thank you. Or sorry. Instead, I mumbled, “Not our best run. This lifetime.”

Loren paused with his spoon nearly to his mouth. He raised a brow.

“It’s been better than this,” I said. “It usually is.”

Slowly, he rested his spoon atop the scoop of Butter Pecan, then stared at it, unwilling to hold my gaze.

“It’s always a little like this,” he murmured.

“For you?” I asked.

“For us.”

My lips bent in a frown. I remembered joy. Laughter. Cuddles and kisses on cozy nights. I remembered the way he looked at me, the way he was trying not to look at me now.

Travis and his wife must have been happy at some point. Blissful newlyweds who vowed to endure better or worse. They were nice words until worse slapped you in the face. Worse ruined things for a lot of people.

Coconut Cream Extreme ran down the side of my cone and puddled on the side of my finger. I could have licked it off but,instead, I let it sit. Cool and wet. Unpleasant. It felt fitting for the conversation.

“Do you ever wanna leave?” I asked. “Go farther than, yanno,” I shrugged, “the parking lot?”

“Leave you?” He didn’t hesitate nearly long enough. It wasn’t a novel thought.

I nodded, and he shook his head.