Four to seven, ten to close.

Her tears come, in a corner seat at Ryan’s Grill. The problem isn’t that she loves me. The problem is that I love her. So does her boyfriend. He’s off-island; she’s going back to him. She has to.

“What do I do with this, now?” she asks me honestly. The truth was what she had always wanted. This truth.

Just to know, I say. Knowing means something. She admits that it does, rising to leave. We’ll talk later, when she doesn’t feel the same. We’re finally telling the truth and I learn what I always knew. We never speak again.