Actually, no. I don’t understand. I mean, I get why people don’t want to be around me. I’ve always wondered why Lindy and Mick stuck it out, especially when I was at my worst in those early days.

It’s like Olivia somehow set an example for the others with her tough-love voodoo.

Kali won’t talk to me either.

Not that I think Olivia told the others what happened. She was gone within an hour of telling me goodbye.

But her desertion sent a clear message: If the beast wants to be alone, then let him.

Whatever. I’ll be fine. Lindy’s right, I do make good eggs. I can brown beef for tacos, or whatever. I can boil water for pasta.

There’s always takeout. If my leg’s good enough to run, it’s certainly good enough to drive.

Not that I’ve been doing much running. I don’t like it anymore. She took even that from me.

Once I loved it for its solitude. And now? Now it just feels f**king lonely.

“You take care of yourself, Lindy,” I say, ignoring her questioning gaze.

Then I do what once was unthinkable: I hug her. And I let her hug me back.

She clings a little too long, and maybe I do too. She’s the closest I’ve had to a mother since my own passed away forever ago.

But I can’t let myself think like that. An employee retiring is one thing. A pseudo-parent walking out on you? It’s crushing. So I don’t even go there.

“You need help loading the car?” I ask as I pull back, desperate to change the subject.

“Nah, Mick took care of it all this morning,” she says, adjusting her scarf and doing the blinky thing again.

“Where is Mick?”

Lindy fiddles even more deliberately with her scarf, not meeting my gaze.

My eyes narrow. “Lindy.”

“Well . . .”

I sigh in understanding. “My father’s coming into town, isn’t he? Mick went to pick him up from the airport.”

“Yes,” Lindy says with a sheepish smile. “I think Mick wants to feel needed just one last time.”

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.

I haven’t seen my father since the last time he came up to give me shit about daring to show my face in Frenchy’s. And actually, it’s because of that fact that I’m not dreading his arrival as much as I would have just a few months ago.

If anyone will understand why I couldn’t meet Olivia’s outrageous demand of shopping trips and movie theaters and vacations, it would be him. He didn’t even want me to show myself to a bunch of small-town locals in Nowhere, Maine. He’d probably have a heart attack at the thought of me following Olivia to New York, or, worse, attempting to rejoin my old life in Boston.

In the weeks that Olivia’s been gone, not a day has gone by where I haven’t second-guessed my decision. My nightmares are no longer about the war, but neither are they a clichéd montage of me fumbling around in the public eye while everyone points and laughs at my face.

No, my dreams are about her.

The bad ones are bleak, endless winters of trying to reach her and failing.

But the worst dreams—the ones that kill me—are the good ones. The ones where she’s laughing, or running along beside me with her little trot-trot gait, or sprawled out in my bed, taking up every inch of space.

Those are the mornings where I wake up wanting to go to her.

I smile grimly. For the first time in a long time, I feel like my dad can’t get here fast enough. I need a good dose of reality before I do something like chase after Olivia’s fairy tale of happily-ever-after.

I give Lindy a last peck on the cheek. “If I don’t see you before you leave . . . thank you. For being here.”

There she goes again, getting all watery. She pats my cheek awkwardly.

I watch her leave the kitchen. The second woman in a month to do just that.

I head into the office. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually watching the clock as I sit at my desk, awaiting my father’s arrival. I should have asked Lindy how long ago Mick had left, but that probably would have just made the minutes tick by slower. I should be getting used to it by now. Lately the days have been very long, and not just because it seems like it’s dark until noon and then dark again at three.

The days are long because I’m bored. I’ve racked my brain to remember how I used to fill my time. I’ve tried to rewind to a few months ago, where days and weeks and months passed in a blur. But even whisky doesn’t help anymore.

The endless solitude is slowly stifling me. I’m letting it.

“Paul.”

I jerk a little from where I’ve been slouched over, clicking on random links on my laptop without actually reading anything. I’ve gotten ridiculously adept at surfing the Web lately. I had no idea there was so much mindless drivel on the Internet just waiting to be absorbed into vacant, bored minds.

“Dad.”

He pauses a little in his stride, giving me a puzzled look. Probably because it’s the first time that my voice has been welcoming. Hell, it’s the first time in many years I’ve called him Dad without a sarcastic edge.

“Sorry I didn’t call first,” he says, taking a seat across the desk like this is a business meeting. I intentionally ignore the little twist in my chest. What the hell was I expecting? A hug? After years of never returning his phone calls and going out of my way to show him how little I needed him?

I shrug.

“How are you?” he asks distractedly as he pulls his briefcase onto the desk and begins rooting around in the papers there.