Summer comes and goes, and so do I: to Salt Lake City to visit a friend, to Portland for a conference, to the Grand Canyon on a family road trip.  In Salt Lake City, I spend time sightseeing and appreciating the locals’ obsession with beehive symbolism. In Portland, I find myself trapped in a hotel for two days, unable to see the city and secretly relieved that I have been spared a tour down that particular memory lane. On the road trip, we found ourselves everywhere, re-writing the itinerary as we went, sightseeing where the collective impulses took us, then enjoying luxurious dinners before falling asleep in budget hotels.

My friend and her husband come to visit, and we explore Seattle together, which should feel like my home turf but somehow never quite does. We take selfies with Lenin and the Fremont Troll, and one day when the weather is especially nice, ferry over to Bainbridge Island. Along the way, we enjoy the breeze and the views and a long chat about how things are. We’ve known each other since before all the husbands and held each others’ hands through three divorces and three children and infertility and medical crises and of course some happy times, too.

She asks about Mr. Faraway, who isn’t there, and is one of the only subjects that hasn’t come up over pie and coffee and sightseeing.

He had commitments at home, I say. It’s far away, so he can’t just join us for an hour.

I got that part, she says. What I don’t get is why you don’t seem excited. You’ve barely mentioned him.

He’s a good person, I offer, and very thoughtful. He always brings me flowers.

Is being a good person enough?

It should be, I think. I know from experience how hard they are to find.

So on a Monday evening, Mr Faraway calls me to let me know that he is on the ferry, and an hour later, we meet in front of a Southwestern restaurant in my suburb’s small downtown. I decide immediately that it’s too crowded and noisy, and he doesn’t mind the sudden change in plans. We go around the corner to a neighborhood staple, where we sit in a booth and talk.

We talk for hours, about genealogy and travel and our kids and what we studied in college.

We talk until the restaurant officially closes, but they let us stay at the table as long as we want, so we stay on, talking.

Finally we move on, and he suggests we walk around the town a bit. It’s changed a lot since I was last here, he says.

We walk together, and he puts an arm around me as we do, then takes it away quickly. We look in windows, and as we check out the offerings of an art gallery, I feel that same urge as before – to just step slightly to the side, and his arm will be around me.

But I’m afraid he will move it away again, so I don’t.

Finally, he walks me to my car, where I receive a warm goodnight hug instead of the kiss I am expecting.

I drive home, but as I leave, I can see him in the car mirror, standing there, watching me depart, not moving on until I am completely gone from view.

I’m confused, again; again I play the evening over in my mind, trying to see if it went wrong somewhere.

But as I drive home, it dawns on me: he has driven nearly four hours – and will drive another four hours back – just to sit and talk with me about nothing in particular.

I wake up the next day, and see Mr. Faraway’s lengthy messages in my inbox, and get mad. I’m sorry, he says, in a dozen different ways.

Go away, I think. You don’t have time for me and I don’t have time for this.

I’m sorry doesn’t mean anything, I tell him. I’m sorry doesn’t do anything to make something right.

I don’t know what to do, he says, and then launches into another lengthy explanation of everything swirling around him.

And that’s the point, I tell him. You’re just too busy.

He goes on and on, but I can’t listen to it, and anyway, I have to take The Child to school.

When I get back, he calls: He’s trying to sort it all out. Please, I am very new to this. Please be patient, I was in high school last time I did this.

I’m tired of waiting for everyone else, I rage. I waited for eight years while everything else came first, and in the end, I got nothing. I know that’s my issue, I tell him, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter.

No, he says, it’s not just your issue, it’s our issue.

I listen, silently, for him to say something that will help.

I will figure this out, he says.

That evening, he calls me again: I thought about it today, and I think you need to hear this: You were right, and I am very sorry.

A few days later, he asks if I am free – on a Monday evening.

Yes, I can make it. Do you have a meeting in town?

No, he says. I moved a few things around so that I could come to see you.