I had not, partly because the damage made the suitcase look less expensive, and partly because I had become attached to the noise.
It sounded determined.
Ellie was waiting outside beside a blue pickup truck.
She wore denim shorts, sunglasses, and a white T-shirt. Her hair was tied back, although the wind had already pulled several strands loose around her face.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
We had spoken on video. We had exchanged messages every day. I had spent enough time imagining this moment to produce several versions, none of which included us standing twenty feet apart beside a sign directing passengers toward long-term parking.
Ellie looked at the hat.
“You brought it.”
“You requested evidence.”
“I assumed you had destroyed it for the public good.”
“It has historical value.”
“It has the name of a golf resort embroidered across the front.”
“History is rarely elegant.”
I stopped in front of her.
This was the point where people usually hugged.
Possibly kissed.
At minimum, there should have been some meaningful contact involving an arm or shoulder.
Ellie looked down instead.
“That suitcase sounds terrible.”
“It has been through a lot.”
“You could buy a new one.”
“I believe in loyalty.”
“You own seven guitars.”
“That is different.”
“How?”
“They have names.”
The moment passed without either of us touching.
I was relieved.
I was also disappointed enough to resent the suitcase.
Ellie opened the passenger door.
