Then I noticed his hands.
They were shaking.
I’d seen Reed angry.
I’d seen him exhausted.
I’d seen him at the hospital when I had emergency surgery.
I’d seen him bury his dog.
I’d never seen his hands shake.
I touched the brim of the hat.
“Walter’s?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s why you wouldn’t buy a new one.”
“Yeah.”
I had spent weeks trying to convince him that the thing looked like it belonged to somebody’s grandfather.
Apparently it did.
That made me laugh.
Only once.
But it was enough.
Reed looked at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I insulted a dead man’s hat for six months.”
He smiled.
“He would’ve agreed with you.”
That was the moment the anger changed.
It didn’t disappear.
I want to be clear about that.
Real forgiveness, at least for me, doesn’t work like someone pressing a button.
