Page 67 of Roadrunner

“My husband died,” I said. “Several months ago.”

He nodded slowly. “I heard something about that.”

“From who?”

“Small world,” he said.

I wrapped my hands around the cup. “I have a son. Arthur.”

He looked at the cup. Then at me. “Okay.”

“I want you to know that before anything else,” I said. “He’s the most important thing. Whatever this is. Whatever happens. He comes first.”

“That’s how it should be,” he said.

“Are you with someone?”

He held my gaze. “No.”

“How long?”

“Long time,” he said.

I looked at my coffee. “I looked for you online.”

“And?”

“Nothing,” I said. “You don’t exist.”

“I exist,” he said.

“Not online you don’t.”

“Never saw the point.”

“I found one photograph,” I said. “From a veterans’ event.”

He said nothing.

“You looked the same,” I said.

“I’m not the same.”

“No,” I agreed. “Neither am I.”

The back room was quiet.

“I left because I was pregnant,” I said.

He went still.

“I didn’t know what to do,” I continued. “I woke up in that hotel room and I didn’t know what happened and then three weeks later I found out I was pregnant and I panicked.” I looked at my hands. “I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought you’d think I’d cheated and I couldn’t—” I stopped. “I made the worst decision I’ve ever made. And I’ve thought about it every day since.”

The room was very quiet.

He looked at his coffee cup for a long time.

“Arthur,” he said.