She looked up at me over the top of her glasses.

“Was that meant to be you?”

I carried the warm printout and the peppermint back to Bridgeport.

At eight that night I unlocked the metal lockbox on the floor of my closet and took out the journals.

The lockbox still smelled like gun oil and old paper, the way it had the day I packed it.

I laid the journals on the kitchen table and opened the first one to the spring before the wedding.

Gregory had taken me to lunch at the country club.