I thought about how easily I could have thanked her, declined the invitation, and driven back to my empty apartment.
I would have been fine.
That was what frightened me most.
I would have been fine for years, perhaps for the rest of my life. I would have worked, paid my bills, visited my mother occasionally, and told myself that being independent was the same thing as being content.
I might never have known the difference.
Diane rested her head against my shoulder.
“Thank you for walking through that door,” she whispered.
I kissed the top of her head.
“Thank you for opening it.”
Then she pulled away slightly.
“There is one more thing I need to tell you.”
Something in her voice made me sit up.
“What is it?”
She rose, crossed to the walnut bookshelf I’d built years earlier, and reached behind a row of books on the bottom shelf.
