When I got home I found him sprawled out on his bed, naked underneath his ceiling fan, begging me for water. I called Dr. Stephens, who explained the differences between heat exhaustion and heat stroke, told me to keep a close eye on him, and to call him if Brian got any worse. I spent a fitful night beside him, staring at his face and chest to make sure he was still breathing. Waking him periodically to force more water down his throat; holding my breath, willing it to stay down. He finally opened his eyes on his own just before nine on Saturday morning. He looked up at me, ran his tongue over his dry lips and croaked:

   “It’s fucking hot in here.”

   I nodded. “Stifling heat and oppressive humidity.”

   That got a small laugh and it made me feel a little better. Then he begged me to run down to the market to get him some ice cream. First I made him drink two more tall glasses of water, told him to stand up, then to walk around the room, because I can’t leave you alone if you can’t even hold yourself upright. He rolled his eyes, but obeyed. I got dressed and ready to go while he took a quick shower, then, finally convinced that he really would be alright if I left him alone for a whole fifteen minutes, drove to the market.

   I nodded silent greetings to my fellow shoppers on my way to the frozen food aisle, tossed three half gallon containers of ice cream into my basket, then marched towards the checkout line. There were five registers in the store but only two of them were open, even though the place was packed, and it took me twenty-five minutes to reach the head of the line. Agnes explained why.

   “Those damn teenagers,” she grumbled. “You’d think they’d be grateful to even have a job. Three of them called in sick today, but I know they’re really headed up to Bangor for the fair.”

   “Probably.”

   “Kids today. They get everything handed to them. They just don’t know what it means to work for anything.” She bagged the ice cream, then asked, “How does that boy stay so skinny eatin’ like this? I bet he’ll have one of those finished before noontime all by himself.”

   I only shrugged, because I didn’t think Brian was skinny at all. He was rugged, solid; just like a tree trunk. But I knew what she meant. He should have been about three times his size.

   She gave a wistful smile. “Seems like just yesterday his mom was in here buying diapers for him. Have I ever told you that I knew Wendy when she was just a little girl?”

   She told me every time I came in. “Really?”

   “Sure did. She was a spitfire, too, let me tell you.”

   And she did. She told me three stories in a row about Wild Little Wendy. She’d told them all to me before but I listened anyway. Then she handed me my receipt and smiled a little sadly.

   “It’s a such a shame that the Lord called her home when she was still so young.”

   The idea that God had anything to do with killing young mothers--or anyone, for that matter--just so he could have extra company in heaven, especially when they were sorely needed right here on Earth, had always struck me as blasphemous. But I didn’t say so.

   “She surely hated the thought of leaving those kids behind. The last time I saw her was in here, after she started getting real bad. She was weak and in a lotta pain by then and she was having a hard time just pushing the cart around. When I asked her how the kids were holding up she said, ‘It’s gonna be hard, but I think they’ll be okay. Brian’s ready now.’”

   My voice broke a little as I asked, “She said that?”

   Agnes nodded. “And she was right. They turned out okay.”

   I nodded back, but didn’t answer, and I drove home with a sad, heavy heart; tried to imagine what those last few months must have been like for Wendy LaChance. How many people had she reached out to before she died, knowing her husband couldn’t be counted on? Had anyone understood the silent pleas behind the brave façade? Had they even tried to listen? I’d never met the woman. She had been dead for fourteen years. But I could hear her.

   Why hadn’t someone taken care of them? An absent, alcoholic father. A town full of people who knew it. Someone could’ve taken them into their home. How many people had Wendy begged, and how many of them, like Agnes, had paid attention to the wrong half of her prophecy? Forced her to put all that weight on the shoulders of a twelve-year-old boy.

   I pulled into the driveway and, as I looked ahead, slammed both feet down on the brake, stupidly letting up on the clutch. My car sputtered, then tried to lurch forward before it finally stalled. Brian’s truck was gone and in my usual spot was a familiar blue car; a car I never expected to see in New Mills, let alone sitting in my driveway. The sunroof was open, windows rolled down. And for just a moment I could feel it again. The salty wind, blowing through my hair…

   It was a stupid request, of course, because it was too late for it. So I did the only thing I could do. I pulled ahead into Brian’s spot, turned off the ignition and took a deep breath. Then I looked towards the house.

   And there he was. Jason Dyer. Waiting for me on the porch steps.

   He looked up, looked right at me. Or at least he probably did. I couldn’t be sure because his eyes were obscured by a pair of dark sunglasses. I looked away, out towards where the orchard had once stood. There was nothing left of it, not even any stumps. And even though I tried, I couldn’t remember what it had looked like before Brian had torn it down. Not the frozen orchard, not the imaginary springtime orchard. Nothing.

   I grabbed my purse and the ice cream. Three double bagged bundles and they made me wonder just where the hell Brian had gone. Why he’d left me here alone. Even though, really, I knew exactly why.

   I opened the car door. I’d forgotten, because of the air conditioner, how hot it really was and it felt just like a slap in the face. I kicked the door shut. Gripped the bags. The purse.

   I didn’t look at his face as I walked towards the house. I couldn’t. I concentrated instead on the sound of my sandals, flip flopping against my sweaty bare feet. I took a quick peek at them, grateful that I’d painted my toenails in the middle of the night. Bright pink. I was even more grateful that I’d put on some make up and a sundress before heading out to the store, instead of donning my usual t-shirt and jeans ensemble. Because the only thing worse than running into your ex-husband unexpectedly is doing it when you look like shit. And I almost smiled--almost, but caught myself in time--because Jason had always loved the way I looked in this dress. The skirt, he’d said, was nice and short and it was tight in all the right places.

   He stood up without a word as I approached and opened the screen door for me. I climbed the four steps, tossed my purse and the bags onto the floor, swallowed hard and, finally, turned to face him.

   He’d never looked better, damn him. He was tan and trim and healthy. There were faint traces of grey in his beard and in his hair which surprised me--even though it shouldn’t have--and it looked good. He was dressed nicely, too, casual but neat in a cream polo shirt and green khaki shorts. I didn’t give him any points for it, though. He’d been expecting to see me and had dressed appropriately, so it didn’t really count.

   He stood there, staring silently at me, his face completely unreadable behind his sunglass shield. I could never tell what he was thinking without seeing his eyes and he knew it. It was why he’d covered them up. Not that it mattered. I knew what to expect and braced myself for it. Clenched my stomach, my toes, my teeth as he finally took off his sunglasses…

   And there they were. Cold, blue eyes. Cold, blue Jason.

   And so I did the only thing I could do. I folded my arms and glared right back at him. Shoved all the hurt away, shoved it into another crater, and packed it down tight. Because it didn’t matter what he thought of me. Not really. Not anymore.

   Except, of course, that it did. It mattered. Still.

   He cleared his throat and opened the conversation, at last, with: “Blonde?”

   The first word he’d spoken to me in nine months and it was a dig about my hair. I blew a piece of my bangs from my eyes. “It’s not blonde.”

   Not technically, but it was getting gradually lighter with each visit to Laura. He shook his head, reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

   “You’re smoking again?”

   He fished one out. “Observant as ever, I see.”

   “Well, you’re not doing it on my porch.” He gave me an irritated roll of his eyes and stuffed the cigarette back into the pack. “When the hell did you start that up again?”

   “A couple of months ago, right after my mother died. I guess you and I have different ways of dealing with stress. Although, if you think about it, all we’re really doing is reverting back to our old habits. I picked this up again,” he held up the pack, then put it back into his pocket, “and you started fucking a boy half your age.”

   He had baited me into the topic so expertly that I hadn’t even seen it coming. I couldn’t do anything except stare. And that made him smile.

   “That’s right. I heard all about your new boy toy. Congratulations.”

   I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking who had told him about Brian. I didn’t need to. “You came all the way down here just to give me shit about my love life? You’re an even bigger dick than I gave you credit for.”

   “No, Tess, I didn’t. Believe it or not, I’ve got more important ways to spend my time.”

   “Yeah. I remember.”

   He ignored the remark, reached inside his other pocket and pulled out a small white envelope. “I came down here because I need to give you this, for starters.”

   I snatched it out of his hand and gazed at my name. Bold block letters. I was almost afraid to open it, even though it was much too thin to contain anything dangerous. And the divorce had been final for five months--or at least it would be five months in three more days--so he couldn’t be contesting anything, could he? After all this time? Wouldn’t my lawyer have called? I took a slow, deep breath and pulled up the corner of the envelope.

   “Your neighbor offered to give it to you,” he said, and this time his voice was almost kind. “But I thought it would be better if I waited for you instead so I could--”

   I stopped mid rip. “He was home when you got here?”

   He nodded. “You just missed him.” He chuckled and added, “We had a nice little chat.”

   My stomach gave a violent, icy lurch that made me suddenly grateful I hadn’t eaten any breakfast. “A nice chat. Really. What were you doing, Jase, pumping him for information about me? Or filling his head with bullshit?”

   “Neither. I did ask him about the...boyfriend, though.” He looked at Brian’s apartment, then up towards mine. “Looks like he’s got ring side seats.”

   Even without the sunglasses I couldn’t tell if he knew he’d actually been speaking to the boyfriend and was just screwing with me, or if he really thought that Brian was just a neighbor who would give him the scoop on my sex life.

   “What did you say to him?”

   He gave a lazy shrug.

   “God damn it, Jason, what the hell is the matter with you? My mother didn’t give you enough juicy details? Now you have to come all the way down here and--”

   “I haven’t spoken to your mother in months.”

   “Well, why do you even care about what it is I’m doing or who I’m seeing?”

   His eyes flashed at me and he lost the smug smile he’d been wearing. “I don’t care, Tess. I don’t give a shit about what you’re doing with your life. You can fuck whoever you want to now. Isn’t that what you wanted? You can spread those cute little legs for every guy you meet if that’s what you want to do and it doesn’t affect me at all. Not anymore.”

   How long had he been practicing that speech? He’d probably been itching to use it on me for months. A dull throbbing started in my left temple and I rubbed it with my free hand, tried to blink back the tears that stung my eyes at seeing the blatant disgust in his.

   “What’s this? You don’t have some smart ass come back all ready for me? Come on, Tess, isn’t that what you do best?”

   It was almost a hundred degrees outside, probably hotter than that on the porch, but I was shivering. Because he hated me. Still. He really did and even though I’d expected it, at least a little, even though I deserved it, more than a little…deep down I hadn’t thought he still would. Not after all this time. Not so much.

   I took another deep breath, silent, in through the nostrils. Filled my lungs with heavy summer air, with stifling heat and oppressive humidity, and let it out with:

   “Well, Jase, you sure got me pegged. I’m just down here fucking everyone I meet. Spreading my legs for every guy I see. They’ve all helped themselves to a nice piece of this and I’m busy making the rounds again so they can each have a second helping.” I rolled my eyes. “At least that’s a new one. How many more of those zingers have you got for me?”

   He didn’t answer, only shoved his hands into his pockets.

   “Oh come on, don’t stop now. Let me have it. All those books you read, all those brilliant literary minds to help you out, and that’s all you got? Tell you what, why don’t I just help you out a little. I mean, really, if you’re gonna come all the way down here to fuck with me you should at least do it right. I’d hate to see you waste your precious time. Let me think now…”

   I tapped my chin; pretended to ponder. Just like I didn’t remember every word. Just like I hadn’t replayed the whole scene in my mind, over and over, all winter long.

   “I dropped to my knees for the first fresh dick that came along. That was a pretty good one, actually. It conjures up a very vivid image with just a few short words. You should write that one down and have your students analyze it next year.”

   I gave him a tiny laugh and shook my head regretfully.

   “It’s too bad it wasn’t true, though. Well, it is true that it was the first dick that...uh, came along after yours. But would you like to know how many fresh dicks I had the opportunity to play with all those years if I’d really wanted to? No? Fine, I’ll just move on, because I seem to recall a particularly disgusting remark...something about my skanky cunt, wasn’t that it? Now, I’ve been wondering all this time so I’m really glad you traveled all this way today to clear it up for me. Especially with your time being so fucking precious and all. Was that a Jason Dyer original, or did you borrow it from someone?”

   “Tess, come on--”

   “Maybe Shakespeare? Didn’t Othello wax poetic about Desdemona’s skanky cunt? Sure sounds like something your buddy Billy would come up with, that misogynistic prick.”

   His eyes snapped, but we’d gone round and round on that subject too many times for him to take the bait. I aimed lower.

   “Not that it was too skanky for you to use one last time. I don’t think I ever got a chance to thank you for that, by the way.”

   Bullseye. His face turned deep red with what was either embarrassment or rage. Probably both. Because it really was a low blow, and, what was worse…it wasn’t really true. The truth was that I’d used it. Tried to. I’d actually thrown myself at him, begged him to stay, begged him to fuck me. I thought if he fucked me again it would make him stay.

   That’s what I did. I begged him. To fuck me.

   And he tried. He gave it a good shot, but he couldn’t do it. He was too hurt and stunned. So he stood up, and I did, too. Both of us naked and sweaty. Both of us shaking. And he was disgusted. With both of us. Beyond disgusted, beyond hurt and stunned. Angry. Finally.

   I didn’t answer, because I was too scared. And because, really, there was nothing to say. No way to explain, no words to make him understand, and I’d already begged him. So instead I gave him silence. Defiance. And I still wondered sometimes--still--if he’d already stopped loving me by that point or if that’s what had killed it. Either way, that’s when he let me have it. Hateful, hurtful, ugly words. And I couldn’t blame him. Still. Because, really, all the words had boiled down to two questions; the two questions he’d never actually asked:

   How could you do it? Why him?

   I decided, finally, to give him an answer. And, at the same time, to rid myself of at least some of the venom that had been coursing through me for nearly a year.

   “You know, it really is too bad you didn’t listen to Coach all those years ago. He tried to warn you about me. The kind of person I am. The kind of girl. You remember, don’tcha?”

   He did. He went pale suddenly and I could see that he was dizzy. Queasy. And it seemed like as good a time as any to put him out of his misery. Or to add to it. At this point I didn’t care--honestly didn’t give a shit--which it was.

   “‘I’m not the girl you marry, Dyer. I’m the girl you fuck and toss aside.’ Isn’t that right?”

   He staggered back a step and shuddered. “Tess, no…”

   “Just think of all the trouble you could have saved yourself, if only you’d listened to him. You could have found yourself a nice girl, a nice wife. The real kind. The kind that wants a house and a yard and dozen little Jason clones running around just so she could have the very distinct privilege of wiping their shitty little asses. Instead you married the town whore, didn’t you? So now you’ve got nothing.”

   “Chris told you? What Coach Poulin said to us that day?”

   “He told me all about it. And apparently Coach told you guys all about me. Jesus Christ, Jason, why didn’t you listen to him? I mean, really, you had time to call it all off. Because if you go out and marry a girl who’d fuck her mother’s boss, you gotta believe she wouldn’t think twice about fucking your friend, too.”

   I’d done it. I’d shocked him. But it didn’t last long, because then came the anger. He was filled with it, practically reeked of it. And for once I knew it wasn’t directed at me.

   “I always wondered what crowbar Chris used to pry your legs apart. Now I know.”

   I let go of all the air in my lungs, just like he’d punched me in the gut. It’s what his words felt like, because they were true. It’s exactly what Chris had done. He knew Jason and I were having problems. Must have known. Dave was Jason’s best friend, but he couldn’t talk to him about it. Not his wife’s brother. So who else was there? The only other person he’d known long enough to trust. And Chris used it to get to me. I knew it even then, but I fell for it anyway.

   Jason ran his hands through his hair, then stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. I felt myself withering under his gaze, so I folded my arms and squeezed them tight against my chest, then tighter still; so tight that my fingers started to go numb. But I didn’t look away from him. I still needed to see his eyes, to feel connected to him somehow, even after everything that had happened. Still needed that…

   Finally he shook his head and said, “It’s true that Coach said that shit about you. He told me all about you and Mike, too--he told me all of it--because he’s an asshole. They’re both assholes. I guess it runs in the family. And Chris is an even bigger asshole for telling you about it. But did you even bother to think about…did it ever occur to you, Tess, what that really meant? It meant that I knew everything…and I didn’t care. It didn’t matter to me. I married you anyway.”

   Of course it had occurred to me. After Chris was all done with me. After he’d fucked me and tossed me aside. I shuddered, clenched my jaw, my stomach. Closed it all down, everything. Because, finally, I could feel it coming up, the tears and grief and vomit, and I couldn’t give in. So I pulled it all back, pushed it in, shoved it down…

   He reached out for me, touched my arm. His hand was gentle and warm, just like it used to be; like it had been for all those years. And for a moment I remembered how much I used to love it when he touched me. Could almost remember--almost--how it had felt when I loved him.

   Tess, I want you to know something. And don’t ever forget…

   I hadn’t forgotten.

   But he had. He’d shut the door all of that, locked it tight and then tossed the key aside. Just like love wasn’t a thing that was precious and fragile. A thing that was easier to lose and to break than to find and to keep. All because of his stupid, fucking, goddamn irrational obsession with babies and family. Just like I wasn’t his family.

   Just like I was nothing.

   “Listen to me, Tess. I--”

   I threw his hand off my arm. Just like it was nothing. “I don’t want to listen to you. Don’t you get that, Jason? Don’t you understand? None of your words mean anything to me anymore, so just…stop saying them. It’s too late for any of them. You’re just…you’re just too late.”

   He looked at his hand and then at me. Stunned. Like he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was hearing. Then he sighed. It was shaky and loud and seemed to come from some deep, horrible place inside of him. I looked into his eyes, stared hard, and I watched as it happened; as he let go of one burden and picked up another. He didn’t hate me anymore. He’d moved on to the next step right in front of me. I’d actually seen it happen and the tears came, finally, too many of them to hold back. Silent tears. He saw them, but said nothing. Did nothing. Because he couldn’t. Not anymore.