“Charlotte Riordan.” I thought of her often over the years. “She liked me, and we held hands sometimes, which wasn’t unusual when we were, say, strolling through the mall. So no one took notice. When we were seniors, something almost happened.”
I paused in that thought.
“Mom?”
“Sorry. It was our final semester, and we had both turned eighteen a month or two before. We were alone in her house, as we often were on Saturday afternoons. In her room, talking. She got into Dartmouth. We spoke about whether we could keep our friendship alive when we were so far from one another. I didn’t know, and I told her so. We were on her bed. It is maybe the clearest moment of my high school days.”
By this point, Mattie and I reached the path. I opened a small gate. I was quiet for a moment, as much in
