When we parted she kissed my forehead like she had when I’d been small—awkward, tentative, full of the unsure bravery of someone asking to be allowed back into a life. “Call me tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll be waiting to hear the sound of your voice.”
As I walked back to the van, the sky was an exhausted, honest blue. Lily was waiting on the curb, hands shoved into pockets; her face was no longer the triumphant scold; it was contrition and relief folded together.
“I didn’t know how to be anything but loud,” she said. “I’m sorry. I think I wanted to be the one who saved her and didn’t know how to do it otherwise.”
We stood there, bumper to bumper, family of a different type: ragged, trying.
When I climbed into the van, Mark looked at me with a gravity that was now familiar: he was the man
