We spent the rest of the afternoon sitting at that table, talking about things we had kept hidden for a year.

We spoke of Arthur’s fear of failure, and how he had always tried to appear stronger than he was.

We spoke of the quiet nights when the house felt too large.

For the first time, we laughed a little when we remembered how Arthur used to lose his reading glasses on top of his head.

When Harold stood up to leave, the sun had set, leaving the sky a deep, bruised purple.

I walked him to the front door.

The cool evening air brushed against my face as I opened it.

“Thank you for staying, Harold,” I said.

“I wouldn’t have been anywhere else, Eleanor,” he said.

He reached out and took my hand.

His grip was steady and warm.

“About Tuesday,” he said, looking down at me.

“The dance.”

“I would love to go,” I said.

A small smile touched his lips.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said.

“I’ll be ready,” I said.