Yep. Definitely him.

I couldn’t see his face, but I’d know that walk anywhere: the way his legs swung forward and his feet struck the ground. I know you’re thinking, Yeah. That’s how walking works. But the point is, I knew his particular way of doing it. The angles, the rhythm, the sway. I recognized it. Some things had changed, but the essentials were the same. The posture, the gait, the back of the head: all Duncan. I glanced a little farther down.

Yep: confirmation on the butt, too.

With that came a jolt of panic.

I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t do this.

I had to get out of here.

I’d been working in the library all day, wrapping book jackets in plastic and cataloging on the computer, and then I’d gone straight to Babette’s and made a splattery mess of pasta and tomato sauce for her dinner—much of which was on my shirt—and then I’d stayed to do dishes. My eyes were tired, and puffy, and my shoulders were tight. I hadn’t showered that morning, I knew that for sure—and now I couldn’t even remember if I’d put on deodorant. Or brushed my hair.

Nope. This was not the time to meet Duncan Carpenter. Again.

I had to get out of there.

I bent low behind my cart and started following him, figuring it was better to keep him in my sights as I moved toward the checkout aisles. All mindless shopping was now forgotten. He was here! On the island! My island! In my grocery store, of all places!

I can’t tell you how shocking it was to see him. Looking back, I should have just abandoned the coffee and slipped off into the night.

But I actually was out of coffee. Something I couldn’t face the start of school without.

I didn’t want to look directly at him, for fear he might feel it and turn around, so I looked at a spot a few inches to his right, and I kept my eyes there until he took a left at the frozen foods, and I hooked a right into the first available checkout aisle. Then I waited while the clerk scanned a stack of what had to be every single frozen dinner in the place for an old man on a walker.

Should I have had compassion for the old man? Of course.

Was it likely he was a widower, now fending for himself after losing the love of his life—the way Babette was? Or possibly doing a weekly shop for some pals who just needed sustenance? Or maybe he was ill, and microwave meals were all he could accomplish? Everybody had a story. But I didn’t have time for sympathy. I had to get out of there. I stood behind him impatiently—actually, literally tapping my toe—as the frozen boxes glitched the bar-code scanner again and again, my anxiety rising.

Can I just add that the clerk was about as sharp as a marble? He didn’t think—or didn’t know how—to manually enter the item numbers, and so when the scanner didn’t beep, he’d just scan it again, and again, and again. Then he’d wipe the scanner off with his shirt hem, or blow on it, or talk to it in a stern voice.

Seven thousand frozen dinners later, I wanted to bang my head against the conveyor belt. But I held still. Absolutely still. Because it was just as the old man was finally all rung up and counting out his exact change—in ones and nickels, for the love of God—that I heard a cart rolling up behind me. Heard it, and then felt it—because it slammed into my butt.

“Whoa. I’m sorry,” the pusher of the cart said, now just feet behind me.

Duncan Carpenter.

I hadn’t heard that voice in over four years, but I knew it in an instant.

When I’d identified his gait in the aisle, I’d been 90 percent sure it was him. When I’d taken a glancing ogle at his butt, I’d bumped the percentage to 99. And now, with the voice, we could make it an even 100. It was him. No doubt. No wiggle room. There was not even the slightest possibility that here, in my sauce-splattered shirt, I’d just been butt-bumped by someone else.

I only knew one thing in that moment.

I wasn’t turning around.

I would leave my coffee behind before I’d turn around. I’d shove that old man on the walker out of the way before I’d turn around. I would get down on my hands and knees and crawl my way out to the parking lot before I’d turn around.

When I didn’t respond to “I’m sorry,” he tried again with, “Didn’t quite hit the brakes fast enough.”

Guess what I wasn’t going to do? Turn around.

I just lifted my hand and flicked it, like Whatever.

Then I stood there. And just ignored him.

When it was time to pay for my one can of coffee, I didn’t even turn—just faced straight ahead, only shifting my eyes sideways to acknowledge the clerk—and as soon as he’d rung me up, I snaked my arm around the coffee tub, flicked a five-dollar bill at the clerk, and hightailed it out of there.

“What about your change?” the clerk called after me.

“Keep it,” I called back, without even turning my head, as I blew past the little old man.

Outside, on the sidewalk, I leaned against a post for a second, then I kept staggering on like some kind of fugitive—ready to get myself the hell home before anything else had a chance to happen.

* * *

One block away, as the panic subsided, it hit me at last.

This was happening. This was really happening.

Duncan Carpenter was moving here—had already moved here.

It was real. I was going to have to go to work every day and see him. I was going to run into him on the beach, and walking around town, and, as we now knew for certain, at the grocery store.

Of course he’d be married now to that dull admissions lady from Andrews. Of course he’d have a family. How many kids would they’ve had time for in all these years? Three? Four? A gaggle, at the minimum. Possibly a flock. Of course, of course. He’d be a great dad—carrying them around on his shoulders and giving them airplane rides. And she’d have organized all the kids’ activities on a color-coded family calendar. She’d be a reliable cook, and she’d have exactly one glass of wine every night with dinner … and she would take all her blessings for granted.

I thought of all the school functions where I’d have to look at them, being adorable. At her, good-naturedly tolerating his antics as he walked on his hands, or juggled hot dogs, or fired up a karaoke machine at the back-to-school faculty picnic.

Before I knew it, what had started as an attempt to lean in to the inevitable gave way to a sting of dread so acute I found myself walking faster, like I was trying to get away from myself. Just the idea of it … of being trapped there with them, endlessly bearing witness to their familial bliss as my life fell so tragically short by comparison on every single count …

Oh, God. It was going to be worse than I’d thought.

I had escaped him before. I had given everything up, and moved away, and built a new life. A good life. And now, walking—or maybe more and more like stomping—back, I resented the hell out of Duncan Carpenter for blithely just coming here and ruining it all. And Kent Buckley, for that matter—for hiring him. And Max, too, while I was at it—for leaving us in this situation to begin with.

By the time I’d made it back to the carriage house, there was no escape.

This was my life.

Now, all I could see ahead was misery, as Duncan charmed everybody and filled Max’s shoes as our new favorite guy. Duncan everywhere. Every day. Forever. What would that do to me? Would I wilt? Would I collapse? Would I turn bitter and desiccated and small?

And then it just seemed clear: something had to give.

I may not have had a choice about what Duncan Carpenter did, or Kent Buckley, or even Max. But that didn’t mean I didn’t have any choices at all.

I didn’t have to stay here, passively waiting until the situation became too excruciating to bear. I didn’t have to stand still while my life crumbled away around me. I could do something, could leave sooner rather than later. Skip over the worst of the worst—and fast-forward to the part where I got to start feeling better.

That felt like a great idea.

I could leave.

I didn’t want to leave my life. But I didn’t want to have it taken from me even more.

And that settled it.

Given my choices, this idea looked pretty good. I’d put myself out of my own misery. I’d go into school tomorrow, sit through Duncan Carpenter’s introductory meeting, follow him back to his office. And then I’d take my future into my own hands … and I’d quit.

It was the most heartbreaking good idea I’d ever had.

But there it was: problem solved.

five

It felt like a great idea at the time.

It felt like a great idea the next morning, even, when I woke up by accident two hours before my alarm.

Just—ding—woke up.

I wasn’t powerless. I didn’t have to go into work every day as the misery of unrequited love embalmed the joy out of me.

I’d just resign—like a boss.