“I keep laying troubles at your feet.”

“It’s no trouble. You saved me last night. Everybody needs help at one point or another. There’s no shame in that.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, but it’s not that simple, is it? The world has expectations of you, of how you are to shoulder your burdens with grace, of the role you play, and as soon as you don’t live up to those expectations, it’s easier for others to cast you aside rather than change how they view the world.

We are defined by what we do for others, by our relationships, by what we have to offer. A married woman has a measure of security a single one does not; a pretty girl a better chance than a plain one. A soldier who comes back from war triumphant is a hero, whereas one who is broken by the effort is forgotten.

The road is rougher the farther we head away from Key West, the landscape changing and becoming more desolate as we continue on. I haven’t been this far north in years, and it’s a whole other world. Despite the small space, it appears you could go days without another soul in sight.

“Thank you for helping me regardless,” I reply. “You know it’s strange that we’ve ended up together like this. Of all my customers, you were the one who was always a mystery. Most of the time people sit down at your table and offer more details about their lives than you want to know. But with you, it was the opposite.”

“I didn’t used to be quiet. But it’s hard talking to people when you lose the art of talking about nothing. People ask how you’re doing, but they don’t really want to know if you’re struggling or not; they want the answer that enables them to go about their day without feeling guilty.”

I never thought about it that way, but he’s right. There are greetings, and casual questions I ask throughout my day, but they’re done out of habit more than anything else. They’re expected. A routine that makes everyone more comfortable, the answers as rote as the questions themselves. A script we’ve all memorized.

“It seemed easier than pretending I was someone I wasn’t, than unburdening myself on others,” John adds.

“Everyone needs help at one point or another,” I say, repeating his earlier words. “There’s no shame in that.”

“And no one ever helped you get away?”

“It’s not that simple.” I twist the little tin wedding band around my finger, not quite ready to remove it. Despite the physical act of leaving, it seems as though I’ll always be tethered to Tom.

“Did you ever consider living elsewhere?” John asks me.

“When I was younger, all the time. That was one of the things that first drew me to Tom. We used to go out on his boat, and we’d talk about sailing away, moving down to the Bahamas, or going to Cuba, seeing the world.”

“What happened?”

“Life, I suppose. Do you like the work you do on the highway?” I ask, changing the subject away from my lost dreams.

“I do. It’s hard work, but at the end of the day when your head hits the pillow there’s not a lot of room for much else in your mind.”

“It must be difficult going to war.”

“Going to war was the easy part—people prepare you for that. Coming home was the hard part. There’s this buildup before you leave. Your head is filled with ideas of what it will be like, of what you can accomplish, a desire to sacrifice yourself for something bigger than yourself. And whatever you expect, war is something else entirely. But at least there’s a mission, a focus, and you’re surrounded by people who come from different walks of life, but who you’re connected to by this bond no one else will ever understand. And then it’s all over.”

I take his hand. He jerks beneath my touch, and I can’t tell who is more startled by my action—me or him—and then he exhales, his whole body shuddering with the effort, and for a beat he is still.

I can’t remember the last time I touched a man who wasn’t Tom, but the hurt in John is unmistakably familiar, and the desire to offer comfort is instinctive.

After all, what more do we want than for someone to see us as we are, to acknowledge our pain, and to offer a moment of relief?

I give him a quick, reassuring squeeze before I snatch my hand back.

How long has it been since I made a friend?

“Is your wrist bothering you?” he asks.

“How did you—”

“You were favoring it earlier when you were carrying the tray in the restaurant. And the older bruises made it clear he was rough with you.”

“He wasn’t always.”

“He shouldn’t ever be.”

For a moment, I seize that thought; I imagine living in a world of such comforting absolutes. But the moment flits away from me, carried off by the wind blowing through the open car window.

* * *

—

We arrive at the ferry just in time. John parks the car, coming around behind the back of the vehicle to open the passenger door for me. I wince as I try to get up, the sheer size of my stomach sending me toppling back.

“Are you all right?” John asks.

“Give me a moment.”

I take a deep breath, pushing off from the car seat. John takes my elbow, holding me steady as I rise to my feet, his fingers blessedly avoiding the bruises Tom left on my arm.

“You folks waiting on the ferry?” a voice calls out.

“We are,” John answers.

“Good timing. Storm’s coming. This is the last trip. Y’all better hurry.”

I move as quickly as the babe will allow; John rests his hand on the small of my back, guiding me, supporting me.

When we get on the ferry, the car loaded as well, my stomach lurches, the water surprisingly choppy.

We wait while the rest of the passengers board quickly, the ferry filling with men who work on the highway. A few acknowledge John with a tilt of their head, but whether they recognize him as a friend or acquaintance, or simply the fact that he is one of them, is difficult to tell.

John stands stiffly beside me, his gaze scanning each new arrival, and it isn’t until the fourth or fifth passenger that I realize I’m doing the same thing—searching for Tom in the faces of all these men. Not that a ferry ride will stop my husband. If he figures out where I’ve gone, it’ll be easy enough for him to take his boat to Matecumbe in search of me.

A few feet away from where I stand, a big man lumbers on board, his head bent, the span of his shoulders broad, his body as recognizable as my own. Panic fills me, and I move behind John, pressing my body against the railing, praying he doesn’t see me.