She looked at her shoes. White sneakers under the lace dress. She’d told me she wasn’t walking across wet grass in heels.
“Can you just… go see what he wants?” she said. “I can’t. Not right now. Not in this dress.”
So I walked over there.
Up close, Duane Albright was older than I’d guessed. Mid-sixties, maybe. His purple shirt was ironed so stiff it looked like cardboard. He had a little white paper bag on his lap, the kind you get from a pharmacy, and he was holding it with both hands.
He saw me coming and started to stand up. “I’m leaving,” he said, before I’d even said hello. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for her to see me. I swear I didn’t. I was just gonna sit back here and watch, and then go.”
“How did you know about the wedding?”
