Except he hadn’t.
About fifteen minutes into the set, I spotted him three rows over, slightly to the left. He looked older, yet he stood the exact same way—arms crossed while everyone around him moved to the music. I turned my gaze back toward the stage and decided to leave it there. I assumed he would do what I was planning to do: keep his distance, appreciate the nostalgia, and head home. That is, after all, what adults do. An entire lifetime sat between then and now, and you don’t simply walk up to someone after twenty-one years.
Between songs, my daughter mentioned she was thirsty. I told her to stay put while I stepped out to find concessions. As I walked, a hand brushed lightly against my shoulder.
“Hi.”
We walked toward the outer corridor where the sound was low enough to talk. Within the first two minutes, he mentioned he had never married, almost as if he wanted to clear the air immediately. He confessed there was a reason behind it that he had carried for decades, and he asked if I would hear him out completely before speaking. I stood there and listened to every word.
“I came back for you,” he said.
For a fleeting second, I thought he meant that very night. I stared at him, wide-eyed. “You mean tonight?”
“No.” He kept his eyes fixed on the paper cup in his hands. “That first winter. After we split up.”
He explained how he had spent his entire first semester convincing himself our breakup was logical. We were young, separated by hundreds of miles, and our phone calls had devolved into endless arguments over schedules, money, and effort. But when winter break arrived, he went home, lasted four days, and drove straight to my parents’ house.
