The first man I ever fell in love with was my best friend’s dad. didn’t know it, of course, and neither did Mr. Pierce.
The dad was nothing like the son. I’d known since kindergarten, when he pushed me off the swing set on the school playground and had to sit in time-out for the rest of recess. When the teacher made him apologize, he stared at his sneakers and mumbled, “Sorry.” It was only later, when we were leaving for the day, that he approached me at the coat rack and sounded a little more sincere when he added in a breathless rush, “I’m sorry I pushed you off the swing. That was rude of me.”
I had looked up, surprised, but someone behind caught my eye and my gaze continued to travel past the kid to the imposing man who stood behind him. Mr. Pierce wore a dingy wifebeater beneath
