“Who?” he asked.
“You know who.”
Ryan looked as though I had struck him. For several seconds he remained silent.
Then, “You talked to her?”
I folded my arms.
“Interesting choice of words.”
He ignored the comment.
“Did she seem okay?”
The question hit me like a slap. Not “What did she say?” Not “How did you find her?” Not “What happened?”
“Did she seem okay?”
Ryan rubbed both hands over his face. He looked exhausted, defeated, almost resigned.
“Her name is Sloane.”
At least now she had a name.
“Who is she?”
Again.
This time Ryan looked away. For a long while I thought he would not answer. Then he quietly said:
The words stopped me cold. Not loved. Not lost.
Hurt.
A strange feeling settled inside my chest. The story I had spent twelve years creating suddenly began to collapse.
“What does that mean?”
Ryan remained silent. Then he stood.
“Come inside.”
We sat at the kitchen table, the same table where we had celebrated birthdays, paid bills, and planned vacations. Yet suddenly it felt as though I was sitting across from a stranger.
“When I was 16, my dad was one of the most respected people in town.”
