“I’m sorry,” he said before I could speak.
Those two words should have helped.
They did not.
I stood in my doorway in bare feet, coffee cooling in my hand, staring at the man whose cheek I had touched in front of half the neighborhood.
His hair was still damp from a shower. His eyes were tired. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his jeans like he did not trust himself with them.
Behind him, Clover Street looked painfully normal.
Sprinklers ticked across lawns.
A flag moved lazily from Mr. Patterson’s porch.
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