He pulled out a bracelet made of twine and beads that our children had crafted at a kid’s museum. It said “Marcus” on it in pink and purple letters. I remember Emmie giving it to him, a shy smile on her face as her little lashes flickered up at him. Seven years old. She had said something about having a crush. Cute little girl thing to say when they don’t really know what crushes are. I wouldn’t tell her what they are. And yet I saw it in his eyes as they looked at me, a shiver, not nerves, like they were seeing something so far in the distance, when I stood so near, like they could see to the very depths of me. He knew me well enough, every single part of me, that his eyes could travel that distance in a half-second.

“I kept it,” he said, as if this wasn’t something my daughter made, but something I had made.

“Why?” I asked in dare. Say it. Say it. This was not about our kids. This was about the way he put a hand on my shoulder when he saw me in a crowd, then draw me in for a hug that lasted longer than anyone else’s. And of course I knew exactly how long he hugged other people.

“I told you,” he said, eyes flicking down to my lips. “I keep a souvenir from every date.”

“Emmie will be happy to know,” I teased with a smile. I put my hand through my hair to give it anything to do.

“It’s not Emmie,” He flushed, turned away.

I regretted saying it. “I know. I’m kidding.”

“Maggie,” he started and gave out a little laugh. “I’m glad our daughters are best friends.”

I gave a tight smile. “Me too.”

That night as I lay in bed, blanket wedged between my legs, I thought of him. The way his lips had opened to say more. The way I had not been able to hold his intense gaze. So much inside of me was broken. Too much to stand there and think I could start all over again. Our kids are friends. That’s enough.