“The farm was fun.” I shrug.
“That boy is habitual,” Diana says, shaking her head. “He needed his dose of soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter, track in the spring, and Taylor in the summer.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“What, dear?” Diana continues. “Surely you didn’t think he was in it for the chickens?”
I laugh.
“He’s been smitten with you his whole life, sweetheart.” Diana’s smile fades.
The words linger in a moment of silent understanding between us.
“And so is she.” Diana nods at Brett, spinning, her long black hair drawing circles in the early spring air.
I gulp.
“She was so excited to see you this morning. She kept going on and on about you, the dates you’ve been on, the little dinners. The bedtime stories.”
Brett drags her foot along the ground, slowing down the tire before grinning widely and waving at us on the bench. I offer her a thumbs up, which Brett returns eagerly.
“I feel responsible, you know,” Diana adds. “If I hadn’t gone away, he might not have called you.”
Words unspoken form the next natural thought, but I hold them back.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Diana says. “And you’re right.”
"What’s that?” I ask.
Diana stares out at Brett. “How could Leyla leave?” she replies, in a quiet, even tone.
I fidget with a loose string near the edge of my scarf. “I’m sure it’s complicated.”
“Perhaps,” she offers. “I try to remind myself that I’m not privy to what goes on behind closed doors.”
I nod, unsure of how to respond. I tug at the string on my scarf until two stitches come loose, forming a small hole. My pulse quickens, but I try to practice intentional breathing to slow it down.
“Still, I don’t understand how she could do it. Matthew would never have done such a thing.”
The irony of Diana’s comment is not lost on me. Memories of our final moments in the Cliff House slam into my mind like waves pounding the shore during a hurricane. “I’m sure there’s more to it than we realize,” I finally reply.
“I can’t say I agree, dear. There’s right, and there’s wrong. And what she did was wrong.” Brett kicks her feet off the ground, industriously pushing back the tire swing.
I roll the string between my thumb and forefinger, looking out into the distance. “Do you think he loves her?”
“Leyla?”
“Mm.”
Diana swallows. “I don’t know, honey.”
I absently wrap the loose string in a circle around my finger. Another stitch pops out of the scarf’s edge. “Do you think it’s bad that I’m here?” I inhale deeply and hold it. Before Diana can answer, I add, “I just want to help him.”
The woman sighs. “I know.”
“I’m not trying to complicate his life—or Brett’s.”
“Sweetheart, no one is happier to see you back in Matt’s life than I am.”
