“You always watch doors?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you know you do it?”
“Yes.”
“Does it get tiring?”
“Yes.”
She nodded as if that answer made sense.
Most people wanted stories. Reba wanted truth in small pieces, which was harder and safer.
A year after Darren’s arrest, Jacob stood in front of his school class and gave a presentation on bones. He used his own X-rays. He wore a blue shirt, kept his shoulders straight, and only looked at me twice.
Afterward, in the hallway, his teacher said, “He’s resilient.”
I hated that word sometimes. Adults used it to make children’s suffering sound inspirational. But Jacob smiled when she said it, so I swallowed my argument.
Josie came too. She stood at the end of the hall, careful not to crowd him. Her hair was darker now, her face thinner, her hands empty of wedding rings. Jacob hugged her, stiffly at first, then longer.
I watched without interfering.
That was its own kind of combat.
Outside, Josie said, “Thank you for not keeping him from me.”
“I’m doing what’s best for him.”
“I know.” She looked at Reba, who was waiting near my truck. “She seems good.”
“She is.”
Pain crossed her face, but she did not ask for anything. That was progress.
“Nate,” she said, “I know you don’t forgive me. Maybe you never will. But I’m going to spend the rest of my life being someone Jacob doesn’t have to recover from.”
For once, I had no hard answer ready.
“Good,” I said.
Years moved differently after that. Not easier. Just forward.
