Monday, September 12, 7:35 a.m. EDT

Leesburg, Virginia

Riley stared at the phone, wondering what had just happened. After two years? Just out of the blue? He dropped back into his chair and tossed the phone onto the kitchen nook table. I can’t believe she . . . I mean, just out of nowhere . . .

Skeeter, who had stepped into the great room when the call first came, sat at the table. Taking a large bite of his Cholula-smothered Denver omelet, he asked with his mouth full, “You okay?”

Riley nodded absently, then seemed to connect with Skeeter’s question. “Yeah, I think so. That was so weird. She sounded so . . . I don’t know . . . distant, different.”

“Time’ll do that.”

“I guess so,” Riley responded, lifting a piece of omelet but never quite getting it to his mouth. He dropped his fork and pushed his plate back. “She just sounded so sad. It’s almost like this was a cry for help. You know, I wonder if I should call her back to see if everything’s okay.”

“Wouldn’t,” Skeeter said, tackling another chunk from his plate.

“Why? What if she needs me? Maybe she just couldn’t bring herself to say anything? We had these awkward pauses, almost like she was trying to get the courage to ask me something.” Riley stared at the phone that seemed to be crying out, Pick me up! Pick me up!

Skeeter put down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Used to have a dog, Comanche. Okay dog as dogs go. But hooked on the white bread—couldn’t get enough. I give Comanche a little white bread, he’d do anything for me. He’d walk with me from home to hell and back, as long as I kept feeding him the white bread.”

Although there were usually points to Skeeter’s stories, they weren’t always easily accessible. This one seemed to bring a new depth to the word obscure.

“So, you’re saying . . .”

Skeeter picked up his fork and used it to point at the phone. “White bread.”

Riley watched his friend shovel another bite into his mouth. Am I that easy? Is that what he’s saying? Give me a phone call, and I’m panting like Pavlov’s dogs?

“You love that dog, Skeet?”

Pushing his empty plate away, Skeeter downed the last of his coffee and shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably.”

At least that’s something. At least there’s some possibility that she—

“Didn’t respect him, though. He was way too easy.”

That was like a blow to Riley’s gut. Love and respect always went hand in hand for him. No respect, no love.

“Got film today.” Riley slid the plate with its half-eaten omelet across the table to Skeeter, who accepted it with a nod.

As he brushed his teeth, he wrestled with whether Skeeter’s story really applied to Khadi and him. For it to be true, Khadi would have to be using him—for companionship, for affirmation, for something. She may have loved him, but it wasn’t a real love. It was a “what-can-you-give-me” kind of love, not the other way around.

But that just didn’t sound like her. Nothing about her ever said user to him. No doubt about it, there was real love there—once.

He stepped into his bedroom and went to his sock drawer. Running his hand underneath the balled-up pairs, he found the strip of leather he was looking for. He pulled it out and held it in front of him. Hanging at the end of the leather thong was a ring that Khadi had given to him the last time he had seen her. It had belonged to her grandfather and had the words truth, integrity, and honor inscribed on it in Farsi.

As he watched the gold slowly twist, he thought, I understand what Skeet’s saying. I don’t want to just grab any little bite and explode it into some big thing. But there’s no doubt that what we had was—is?—real.

Truth, integrity, honor—I’ve forgotten a bit about those words lately.

He was replacing the ring among his socks when he stopped and pulled it out again. Taking the thong in both hands, he slid it over his head and tucked the ring under his shirt. This may be as close as I get to her today, but at least it’s closer than I was yesterday.