The wind blew dead leaves around our ankles as we walked across my backyard, silently, our hands in our pockets because it was just way too nerdy—even for me—to wear gloves in October no matter how chilly it got. After we crossed Watch Hill Road and continued farther into the woods, David cleared his throat and said stiffly, “I know I said it last night, but I really do want to thank you for offering to store my stuff.” “It’s fine, David,” I said. “We have the room. Those storage places are yucky.” He paused, and I could hear him swallow hard even though our feet crunched loud along the ground. “Can I ask you something?” “Maybe,” I said, trying to sound funny. “Why are you being so nice to me?” “Am I?” “My dog. My stuff. Honestly, Laurel, you’d think that I hadn’t been such an asshole at that party that night. And you’d think that . . .” David stopped walking. It seemed like his throat was closing around something, and he took a quick little breath.
