He came. He. I don’t even know his name anymore.

—Maggie Walther’s Diary

The next night there was an ambulance in the Stephenses’ driveway. I walked out onto my front porch to see Mrs. Stephens being wheeled out on a gurney, with Mr. Stephens walking at her side.

It turned out that she had suffered a stroke. I planned to visit her in the hospital but never got the chance. She suffered a second stroke the next morning and passed away.

Saturday night I went to her viewing at a nearby Mormon chapel. Mr. Stephens was completely bereft, standing next to his wife’s casket. He had lost the whole of his family in just one winter. I hated this winter.

In spite of his grief, Mr. Stephens seemed glad to see me. “First my son, then my wife,” he said. “Leisa was my life. Why couldn’t it have been me?”

We cried together. I think that’s what love should be.

Every day I thought about Andrew. I kept hoping I would hear from him when he got back, if not sooner. The eighteenth came and went. I drove by the lot several times but didn’t see his truck. I felt like a stalker. Maybe I was a stalker. Why couldn’t I just accept that it was over? I guess because, for me, it wasn’t over. I needed something more definite. I needed an axe to fall on something. Maybe my heart.

Around noon on the twentieth I received a text message from an unfamiliar number. All it said was,

555-5964

Boss is back

It was from Shelby. The hipster had actually come through. I drove immediately over to the Christmas tree lot. It was different from the last time I’d been there. The parking lot was nearly empty, and Andrew’s truck sat up front near the trailer. I parked my little Fiat next to it, took a deep breath, said a mantra three times—If you give fear legs, it will run away with your dreams—and then walked into the lot.

There was only one customer, and Andrew was helping him at the trailer. I stood at a distance, waiting for him to leave. Then Andrew saw me. He glanced up at me, then turned away nearly as quickly.

He finished the transaction. As the customer was leaving, I walked up to him, our eyes locked on each other. When I got close, he said, “What do you want, Maggie?”

“You,” I said.

He didn’t say anything, which made my heart feel like a truck had parked on it. He just stood there.

“Wow,” I said, more to myself than him, “you really are done with me.” My eyes welled. I looked at him, fighting back the weight of his rejection. I finally said, “Before I go, would you do me just one kindness?”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Tell me that you don’t have any feelings for me—that everything you once felt is gone.” I wiped my cheek. “I need to hear it. It’s the only way I can start to move on.”

He looked down for a moment, then said, “I can’t, Maggie. It wouldn’t be true.”

“Then why are you torturing me?”

His brow furrowed. “Why can’t you see that I’m protecting you?”

“From what?”

“From me.”

“I don’t want to be protected from you. I don’t care what you’ve done, or what your brother did. None of that matters to me.”

He looked even more upset. Actually, he looked lost. He raked his hand through his hair. Then he said, “All right. I get off in an hour. We’ll talk.”

“Do you want me to wait?”

“No. I’ll come over to your place.”

“Thank you,” I said softly.

“Don’t thank me,” he said.

I drove home with my chest aching. There was a fierce battle going on inside between fear and hope. I’m not sure which was more dangerous.