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Her smile was warm—everything about Laila was always warm—but we hadn’t quite settled into any sort of comfortable groove since I’d returned to town.

That wasn’t Laila’s fault, I knew. I’d been back for nearly a year, and in that time my childhood friend had asked me to join her for dinner or coffee or shopping probably a dozen times.

All in the first few months. Even the kindest and most loyal of old friends gives up after a while, I guess.

My dad turned his attention back to his crossword puzzle, and Mrs. Stoddard studied her coffee cup. I looked behind me to

see Fenton staring at the television and Roland Cross looking up at the ceiling. There were only four or five other people

in the entire place, and not a single set of eyes met mine as I surveyed the dining room.

Clearly, my presence had interrupted a conversation I wasn’t meant to be a part of.

Since I’d returned to Adelaide Springs, that had become a frequent occurrence. I tried not to take it personally. I’d been

gone a long time, after all, and many discussions had been had without me. I couldn’t expect to be instantly included in everything

all the time. That sounded horrible, truthfully. As the daughter of Doc Atwater—the doctor who had delivered pretty much all

of us under the age of fifty and who knew every citizen in our tiny town (literally inside and out)—I had grown up feeling

a bit like the unofficial town mascot.

As a child I’d eaten at every dinner table within a five-mile radius.

I’d opened the door or answered the phone in the middle of the night and overheard my dad walk people through treating infections and getting bleeding / vomiting / panic attacks under control more times than I could count.

As a teenager I’d served as an unofficial nurse and witnessed babies being born and broken arms being set—and no one had ever seemed to mind that I was there.

I couldn’t remember ever being told I needed to keep things confidential, and I couldn’t think of one single time when anyone apart from my dad asked me to leave the room or even hinted that my dad should remove me.

The sensitivity... the importance..

. the privilege of being welcomed into the most private details of our neighbors’ lives.

.. it was just understood. Though it wasn’t so much that it didn’t have to be taught as it was that my dad had been teaching me by his own example since the day I was born.

But since I’d come back to Adelaide Springs, it had become very clear that I was no longer the town mascot. If anything, I

was the town project. The town sob story, maybe. It felt, sometimes, like they wanted to make me the town charity case, so

I worked very hard at making sure they knew I was fine. Totally fine. Perfectly fine. And fine felt nothing short of miraculous to me. Why wasn’t it good enough for them?

“What did I miss?” I asked of the room at large, and only my dad’s eyes flickered to mine before returning to his paper.

“Think it will snow tonight?” Fenton Norris asked.

The thought of having to plaster on the smile and play the role of the happy and well-adjusted widow to appease them was exhausting,

but not as exhausting as this game of avoidance they seemed determined to play.

“It’s snowing now, Fenton. It’s been snowing. You literally told me the storm is ‘set in good’ five minutes ago.” I sighed. “So allow me to ask again: What did

I miss?”

“It’s nothing, sweets.”

“You just missed one of Wes’s campaign ads on TV.” Laila slid a warmed slice of quiche in front of me and then looked around

the room with what appeared to be frustration on her face. Maybe disappointment. And no one seemed too eager to meet her eyes

either. “Everyone is afraid to mention his name around you, like he’s Voldemort—”

“It’s been twenty-two years!” I exclaimed as laughter exploded out of me.

The passing of time. That was funny. That I could laugh at. So we’d just focus on that rather than the fact that falling in love with Joel Elwyn had long ago ensured

the pain I felt at the mention of the name Wes Hobbes was no more significant than vapor.

And that the loss of Joel Elwyn had ensured I felt nothing at all.

“And it’s an election year. If you guys really intend to clam up every time a campaign ad comes on, I guess let’s just plan

on reconnecting in December.”

Laila shrugged. “That’s what I said.”

“You guys, I don’t care about Wes Hobbes one way or the other. I really don’t. The name Wes Hobbes has no power over me anymore. Wes Hobbes, Wes Hobbes, Wes Hobbes. Say it with me. It’s therapeutic.” Everyone was looking

at me now, that was for sure, so I raised my arms and dramatically gestured as if I were a conductor leading them all in the

world-premiere performance of a new symphony. “Wes. Hobbes.”

I didn’t expect anyone to say it with me, of course, but Laila actually did, our lifelong (if woefully neglected) friendship

and solidarity on brazen display. I smiled up at her, and she winked before heading back to the kitchen.

“You know he’s running for president, right?” I asked, quite rhetorically, as I stuffed the first bite of loosely-inspired-by-the-Civil-War

creaminess into my mouth. “And as of now, odds are he’s going to win. There’s a chance— a chance —I might see his name here and there between now and November, and then maybe even more over the course of the next four years

while he’s, you know, leader of the free world. What’s the plan? Are you going to hide all the TVs and newspapers? Can I expect

a redacted ballot when the time comes?”

I took another bite of quiche and this time chewed and swallowed in silence, savoring the way the crust quite literally melted

in my mouth. “This is delicious, Dustin!” I called to the kitchen.

“Thank you!” he yelled back. Laila peeked her head around the wall just long enough to add, “The Civil War has opened up a

whole new world of possibilities!”

I chuckled and took another bite before looking up at those around me.

Jo Stoddard attempting to bore holes into my soul.

Fenton Norris shaking his head sadly and looking at me like I was seven and he’d just learned he’d mistakenly killed my pet hedgehog, thinking it was the rabid raccoon he’d been hunting for years but that no one else in town had ever seen evidence of.

(True story.) My dad once again pretending to study his crossword puzzle.

“I’m serious. His name means nothing to me. He means nothing to me. I mean it.”

“Maybe you do.” Dad began folding his newspaper. He got it back into its original form, pulled it tightly through his fingers

to reinforce the creases, and removed the napkin from his lap and placed it on the table in front of him.

“Of course I do.”

“Then good for you, sweets.” His eyes finally met mine—did he always look so tired, or only when he was worried about me?—as

he sighed. “Maybe someday you can tell us how you did it.”

It was a rare, insensitive misstep from Doc Atwater, and he knew it. His eyes immediately softened, and he cleared his throat

as he placed his hand on mine on the table. He knew exactly how I had done it. He’d been there through the months of despair

followed by the months of wandering and then by the years of anger and denial. By the time Joel came into my life, I’d fought

battle after battle to free myself from the power the name Wes Hobbes had once held over me.

“Robert E. Leek Soup!” Laila shouted from the kitchen to the world at large, and only my dad seemed to hear her.

He smiled and patted my hand. “I’d eat that.” Then he stood to go and pushed his chair in before leaning over to kiss the

top of my head. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, slipped it on, and walked out to greet the gray, snowy day, looking older

than I’d ever imagined he would.