Rocco arrived half an hour after I finished my one way conversation with him on the phone.
He sounded depressed. Maybe it was about me leaving Milton that had him in a funk. I knew I would have a hard time saying goodbye to him.
Being late for a planned family dinner was like condemning me to the proverbial doghouse for a week. Asking Rocco to join us made things worse. I felt my parents’ eyes on us when we entered the dining room together.
Rocco arrived in jean shorts that had gone out of style in the eighties, and rosy sunglasses, even though he was indoors and the sun had dipped below the distant Adirondack Mountains an hour earlier.
He ambled into the room at my side, barefoot, with a baseball cap turned backward over his head of ink-black curls. Our hands swept across each other’s
