Feeling brave, I reach over to his side of the table and put my hand on his, stopping him from lifting another bite.

“It would have,” I say, staring at him, begging him to look back at me. He keeps his eyes trained on his plate in front of him, his muscles flexed and his arm still beneath the weight of my hand. I don’t know why he’s so against believing me.

“I drove by your house,” he says, his lips paused open. His eyes finally move up to meet mine. “At the start of our junior year. You were getting ready for some dance, your parents were taking pictures. You were wearing this really nice dress. You had a date—some guy who looked like the kind of guy you should be going to a dance with. I’m just a fuck up.”

“Don’t say that,” I swallow.

Our eyes remain on one another.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because…” I start, not knowing how to explain everything Andrew has been in my life. He vanished, but the mark he left was a forever kind. His sacrifice for me so big, he has no idea how enormous. And now that I know what he went through…

“How many times did you write to me?” I ask instead.

He shakes his head and goes back to his breakfast, shrugging once.

“How many?” I repeat. My voice is more forceful the second time, and maybe a bit desperate.

His lips purse and he puts down his fork, pulling his napkin from the table to wipe his lips. “I don’t know. Twenty maybe. Maybe more.”

I gasp, pushing my plate away, holding my napkin to my mouth to hide my reaction from him.

He sighs, closing his eyes for a second, then he slides from the booth, stepping around to my side where he moves in next to me. My breathing stops with the feel of his body next to mine. And then his arm reaches around me, and everything strong inside collapses as I give in and lean into him to cry.

“I didn’t know,” I say again. It’s all I have to give. I didn’t know. He must hate me.

Andrew doesn’t respond, but the feel of his hand as it cups my shoulder then slides up to reach into my hair, his fingers on the side of my head, threading my hair and sliding it from my instant-tear-strewn face, is enough.

“I didn’t know,” I whisper once more.

The waitress comes after a few minutes, and Andrew reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and sliding a twenty on the table. His arm never leaves its hold around me.

“We’re good. Keep the change,” he says.

She walks away, and he remains in the spot next to me, his breathing slow and regular, his hand tender against me.

“Come on. Let me get you home,” he finally says, his head leaning against mine as he speaks. I nod slowly. When his arm leaves from my body, the air rushes around me. The feel left behind can only be described as sickness.

I feel sick.

Andrew stands at the end of our table, waiting while I slide from the booth to follow behind him.

“Thanks for the breakfast,” I say.

He laughs lightly.

“You didn’t eat a thing. And you didn’t even get to enjoy your fatty-ass coffee,” he says. When I glance up at him, his crooked smile is waiting for me. “I think I owe you one.”

I smirk back, but start to feel the sting of tears again. Andrew steps in to halt them.

“Come on,” he says, running his hand down my arm until he finds my fingers, grasping them tightly. He squeezes just to let me know he’s not letting go, then walks with me next to him, guiding me through the restaurant and back to his car, where he walks to my side to open the door.

“Thought maybe this was one of those times I should open the door for you,” he says. My breath stutters from my body, almost feeling painful. I slide into my seat and let him close the door for me. I watch him rush around to his side, then wait while he starts the engine, buckles his belt and pulls away from the restaurant.

I’m lost in a world of what-ifs and other questions for most of the ride home, and I hardly realize how far we’ve travelled when Andrew wakes me from my trance.

“Who told you I was in Iowa?” he asks nervously. He’s worried about upsetting me more. All this time—these years he must have thought the worst of me—and he’s worried about how I feel now.

“My mom. She said my dad asked your family…” I drift off at the memory. I was in a hospital bed, terrified, wanting everything that ever made me feel secure to be in that room with me as doctors cracked open my chest. The realization of it all weighs on my shoulders, my head feels heavy and my body feels numb. “They lied…my parents…they lied.”