I looked at Reed.
He was staring at the grass.
Suddenly the old pieces of him that had never quite fit together began rearranging themselves.
Why he hated throwing food away.
Why he always kept twenty dollars in cash hidden in his wallet.
Why he would automatically check the gas gauge before leaving anywhere, even when we were going two miles.
Why there was always a blanket and an extra sweatshirt in his truck.
Why he never complained about work.
Why, every December, he disappeared for three hours and came home smelling like institutional coffee.
I’d always assumed he was volunteering because he was generous.
I hadn’t known he was going back to a place that had once kept him alive.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
That was the question underneath everything.
Reed finally looked at me.
“Because the first time you asked, we’d been dating three weeks.”
