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My boss’s connections in publishing were a big help—I got a modest book deal, and Nefeli’s own longtime agent has taken me on.

I hope Faded Sunlight isn’t just entertaining, but also important .

I have an office set up in Auntie Min’s guest room, under the window looking out on her garden—a perfect view of the bird feeders!

—and I write and do research (and consult with Sherri on FaceTime) about ten to twelve hours a day.

Keeping myself busy has been critical, but it doesn’t always work—my heart still aches for Klaus, remembering our passionate moments together, his touch, his scent, his voice in the dark, his low laugh.

When you’re waiting for time to heal a wound, the only thing that can make time speed up is a deadline, so I’ve been giving myself strict ones.

This week’s challenge in “the Sherri and Jason Project” is spending time stuck in a car together.

Sherri and I are going to Mammoth Cave National Park, two hours away.

I only see a little of Jason. I think he’s slightly afraid of me.

Sometimes I catch him watching me with a nervous optimism like I’m a feral animal he’s trying to befriend.

We stop at the Dairy Bar, so the first fifteen minutes of the trip are mercifully taken up by eating and listening to a nineties playlist Sherri made.

She’s learned how to make playlists (everything was CDs when she went to prison) and she texts them to me constantly.

Sherri has a peanut butter milkshake and I’m eating onion rings because…

why not? No one’s going to kiss me on the mouth.

It’s strange getting to know her when she’s in her midfifties.

My childhood memories of her are vague. As she pops the lid off her shake and stirs, trying to soften it, then gives up and pulls the straw free and licks the ice cream off, I’m struck by the fact that she seems simultaneously as awkward and unfinished as a kid and has an “old veteran with a thousand-yard stare” look in her eyes that only decades in prison can bestow.

My view of her is always snapping back and forth between recognizing her young essential nature and seeing the fine lines around her eyes, the threads of silver in her hair, and the way she’s baffled by things like streaming services and hashtags.

She scoops out more ice cream and maneuvers it into her mouth, dripping some on her chin and wiping it off with a self-conscious hum of laughter.

“I’m a disaster.” She wads up a napkin and swipes at a drop on her shirt.

“Food is so awesome—I’m making up for lost time.

Probably gained fifteen pounds this year.

This milkshake must be six hundred calories. ”

I crunch my last onion ring and drop the packet into the bag. “Here’s the good news about another way the world has changed since the mid-nineties: body positivity. It’s a whole thing now. Counting calories is neurotic.”

She snorts. “Okay, tell that to the jeans I bought in August and can’t zip.” She pokes at the stereo to change the song or maybe turn the volume up, and scowls when she can’t make it work.

I pluck my phone from the center console and hand it to her. “You do it here.”

“I’ll never get used to this shit.”

“You will—it hasn’t even been a year.”

She monkeys with the music for a few minutes.

“It’s crazy that I can listen to… everything in existence .

My God, the money I wasted on sixteen-dollar CDs to own just one song I loved!

” She chuckles, shaking her head. A new track starts—something buzzy and gloomy with that distinctive nineties growling moan.

She stirs the milkshake, alternating between taking sips and singing along to a song. I’m about to launch into book talk so the lack of conversation doesn’t feel weird when she sprints headlong into Weirdville by asking the one question I don’t want to hear.

“So… you really think it’s over with your boy? Finito, no hope of reconciling?”

“He’s hardly a ‘boy’ at forty-six,” I mutter.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, it’s done. I’m moving on with life, and I’m sure he is too.” After a few groveling messages the first week, Klaus stopped trying. Not a word since then. Is he as brokenhearted as I am, or relieved to go back to his billionaire bachelor lifestyle?

There’s a freeway-mile-long silence, and I can tell Sherri is deliberating over saying more. It makes me feel bad that she and Jason live in fear of annoying me and having me cut them off. Taking pity on her, I offer a question of my own.

“Did you, uh, have breakups? I mean, you started dating… um, Jason … so young. Was he your first boyfriend?” For a second I almost said “my dad,” but it felt too unnatural.

I’m not sure if they’ll ever be Mom and Dad.

It might be like learning a language late in life, my brain “translating” every time rather than feeling the meaning.

“Ha! Oh, definitely not. Maybe it’s TMI, but I was kind of a slut in my day.”

I wince. “Slut-shaming also went the way of calorie-counting, just so you know.”

“Even if it’s about myself?” She shrugs.

“Whatever. Jesus, your generation is so touchy. And not to rub salt in the wound, but you guys don’t get laid enough.

If these dating TV shows are to be believed, millennials and Gen Z take forever to have sex with a new person.

What’s the big deal? Sex was casual and friendly in my day.

We were more worried about AIDS than emotions in the eighties and nineties. ”

“Is that… somehow better?” I ask pointedly.

“Made it easier to not get your heart broken, that’s for sure.” There’s a squeaky suction noise as she works at pulling the thick ice cream through the straw. “What are your numbers?”

“My what?”

“Numbers. Body count. Like how many guys.”

I glance at her, aghast.

“Oh,” she says. “Is that one of the things people don’t ask now? I’d tell you .”

“I one hundred percent don’t need to know.”

Another half mile of silence.

“This isn’t a diss,” she continues, “but I can’t tell if your generation is overall uptight, or if it’s because you were raised by an old lady.”

I give a sharp sigh. “Some from column A, some from column B. Can we talk about, like, anything but this?”

“Fine, yes. Sorry. Jeez.” She fiddles with her straw. “I’m just curious to know if you have a plan about him. Klaus.”

“No.”

“You probably should. Because of… y’know. Maybe go to that race next week in Texas?”

“Not gonna happen, thanks.”

What was I thinking, suggesting a hiking excursion that’s a nearly five-hour round trip away?

I’m losing a day of writing, and my goal was to hit fifty thousand words this week.

As I’m doing mental calculations of adjusted daily word count and thinking about emails I’ve sent to some expert consultants in the US criminal justice system, Sherri pipes up again.

“You’ve never mentioned if you love him. It’ll be my last question if you’re firm on avoiding the subject, but I’m curious.”

I watch the scenery roll past, waiting to reply as I battle a tightness in my throat that would make the words come out as a pathetic croak.

“Yeah, I did love him.”

She takes another sip. “Then part of you still does.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” I retort, rolling my eyes at her “wisdom,” which I can’t help finding smug and simplistic. “This isn’t a sappy old movie. He lied to me, and—”

“But to protect you , right? Not to cover his own ass, like malignant liars do. Don’t you think it was sort of sweet and… I don’t know, heroic? Manly?”

“Good lord, Sherri. ‘Manly’? Hell no. Sorry to drag you kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, but life isn’t a Bronte sisters novel, where men get a free pass to be haunted jerks who treat women like helpless pets who need to be ‘protected,’ and sent off to the seaside to recover if they get the vapors. ”

“Okay,” she mutters, defensive. “Shit almighty.”

“Klaus lied to me, his ‘protection’ was condescending, and… he’s probably not even over his sainted wife. We can’t be partners if he doesn’t see me as an equal. End of story.”

I immediately feel bad for unloading on her, because the word “partners” reminds me of how clueless Sherri still is, and how she’s trying her best. The first few times she heard people referring to their partners, she discreetly asked Minnie, “Are way more people gay now?” because in her day, that designation was only used in same-sex couples.

I let out a slow breath, struggling for patience. “I’m sorry I sound mad. It’s… it’s not you. I’m sensitive about this, and I took it out on you, which isn’t fair.”

I’m not sure if she’s sulking when there’s no reply for a solid three minutes, just the intermittent gurgle of a straw trying to suck up milkshake.

“I understand,” she finally says quietly.

She puts the lid back on her empty cup and drops it into the bag between us.

“And I’m sorry if I’m being nosy or pushy or whatever.

I just panic about all the lost time. I guess I’m trying to have the conversations I always imagined I’d have with you as a teenager.

But obviously you’re an amazing adult woman now with a whole history. I know you don’t need me.”

If she’d said that last bit in a self-pitying tone, I could be annoyed… but she doesn’t. Her calm resignation is neutral.

I mash down the fast-food bag and take her hand, giving it a squeeze. It’s the first time I’ve touched her voluntarily, rather than in submission to a Sherri-initiated hug. I don’t say it, but in my head the response hovers:

I actually think I do need you.

The last race was Suzuka, and Circuit of the Americas in Texas is fifteen hours earlier—a rough time zone adjustment, even though the events are two weeks apart. A few days after the trip to Mammoth Caves with Sherri, I concede to inevitability (and necessity) and text Klaus.

Any chance you can stop by here and talk with me before you fly to Mexico City? I know it’s out of the way. But there are some things that will work better to discuss in person.

For a full ninety minutes there’s no reply, and I get wounded that he’s ignoring me.

A lag before a return text never bothered me before; I always figured he was in a meeting.

But since I took my sweet time replying to his texts in the days after leaving Hungary—and kept my responses under four words—I’m assuming this is payback.

While I’m poring over data about illnesses, injuries, and deaths in the prison where Sherri served her time, my phone buzzes on the little seafoam-green antique desk.

Klaus: Apologies for the delay—I was in a meeting. I’ve already scheduled the flight. There’s a small airport called McCreary just a few miles from you. Does Tuesday work? I’m happy to arrange for a hire car to be there for me if that’s your preference, rather than picking me up.

Me: It’s your call.

His next reply is uncharacteristically terse, I suppose in response to mine.

Klaus: I can make my own way—I have the address. Late afternoon.

For the next five days I’m a nervous wreck.

My writing focus is garbage, so I let myself just do research and some editing.

I go for brisk walks with Auntie Min every morning, help her with volunteering—assembling sack lunches for her church to pick up and take to the shelter—and work on my bedroom, making it feel more like my own space.

In the evenings, Minnie and I cook or bake, then watch movies.

She’s also teaching me to crochet, which is surprisingly relaxing, despite how slow and clumsy I am at it.

Sherri comes over every other day to work on her class assignments for a few hours, sitting with her laptop in the wing chair in the corner of my room.

We’re getting comfortable enough with each other that we can be in the same space silently.

At first I was irritated to have her nearby distracting me from full concentration.

But it’s nice now. If I have a question, she’s here to clarify, tell me a new story, or provide a quote or detail.

We may never really feel like mother and daughter, but we’re cultivating something of a friendship. Kind of like… cousins? Not the shared context of people who grew up in the same house, but a sense of family connection, and the ability to be natural—even a little cranky sometimes—with each other.

The evening before Klaus is going to arrive, Sherri asks me, “Can I meet him?”

“No!”

She holds her hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. Don’t rip my head off. I just… y’know, he’s a big deal in your life.”

“ Was a big deal.”

“ Is , Natty. There’s no denying it at this point, considering.”

She returns to typing out an essay she’s writing about whether there’s a “fourth wave” in feminism, or if it’s a continuation of the “third wave.” I recommended the topic for her midterm essay.

She’s catching up, culturally. It’s not like she did her time in a Siberian snow cave with zero access to the larger world, but she still has plenty to learn about sexual harassment, rape culture, and body shaming.

“I need to do this alone,” I tell her, doing my best to keep my tone light. “Auntie Min isn’t even going to be here. She has choir practice.”

There’s a pause that feels very deliberate, and when I look up from my keyboard, Sherri is smirking at me.

“ Well well well ,” she stage whispers. “I don’t suppose you arranged for this summit to happen when the house is empty… on purpose? A little privacy for a ‘happy reunion’?”

“ No. I didn’t have any control over the timing. The race was Sunday, then Mondays are always crammed with team meetings and such, and on Thursday he’s back in the game with press meetings for the next GP. He doesn’t have a huge window.”

Sherri grins. “Does he have a huge anything else ?”

I feign shock for a second, then grab the plush squeaky hedgehog sitting on my desk and chuck it at her. I point at her laptop. “Quit teasing me and get to work.”

“That’s what she said!” she crows, dissolving into giggles. She return lobs the hedgehog and it bounces off the side of my head.

I pick it up, growling to mask my amusement. “Good lord—you’re relentless. Are you going to keep this up all night?”

She clamps a hand briefly over her mouth, stifling her laughter. “Okay, I don’t even have to say it with that one. You’re pretty much gift-wrapping these for me.”