He gave a small, tired kind of smile. “Nate’s aunt posted about it on Facebook. Spelled out the whole thing. Grand Lake, May twelfth, three o’clock.” He shook his head. “People put everything on there.”
“She thought you were dead,” I said. “Or, she let us think it.”
“I figured.” He looked down at the paper bag. “I’ve been sober seven years. I know that doesn’t fix anything. I’m not here to fix anything.”
Then he looked past me, across the lawn, at Corbin, who was standing very straight beside the arch with the bouquet, watching us.
“That’s your boy,” Duane said. “Corbin.”
I hadn’t told him Corbin’s name.
“How do you know his name?” I asked.
Duane opened his mouth, and then he closed it again. “That’s not mine to tell right now,” he said. “Today’s not about me. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I’ll go.”
