Each time he left a single message, without any other words or explanation: “I'm sorry.”For what? she wondered bitterly. For helping her fix her life? Because by the time two entire months had passed, Bonnie had never been as happy with herself and her occupation—or lack of it. For the first time in several years, she woke up early without an alarm and jumped out of bed to start the day. She began running. Painting. Visiting old friends.Obviously, she didn't need him.Didn't love him.Whatever remnants of feeling she had for him—infinitesimal, broken shards of useless sentimentality—she was getting out of her system by crying herself to sleep. Or once, when she was in Trader Joe's tossing an imported frozen pizza into her cart and had to hurry out without paying.She would not be one of those women. She would not fall apart as though a man was the duct tape holding her together.Then one Tuesday morning he called at the usual time, while she was helping Marilyn with her morning medication, and left a different message. “I think I'm in love with you,”
