“Whatcha doing? He asked.

“Smelling you.”

He pointed to himself. “I'm right here, Lil.”

“I know, but I'm greedy.”

“Me too,” he said, rolling on top of me and burrowing his nose into my neck. It tickled like heck and I couldn't stop laughing. Bobby popped his head up. “So, what do you say? Breakfast?”

“I'm starving,” I lamented. “But I don't want to go into a restaurant around here and see anyone. I've got this bump on my head, and everyone knows everyone around here.”

“Makes sense. Why don't I just run to the little grocery around here? Get us some more bread and P.B.? We can find something further out for dinner.”

“That works for me,” I smiled.

“And whenever you want to hit the road, we can. I don't know what I want to do about Rory, but I don't even care anymore. I just want to get out of here with you.”

“Me too,” I agreed. “I hope he turns himself in. If not, we can decide from there, I guess.”

“I still want us to stop at a doctor though. That cut is ugly. Even on a pretty face like yours.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ugh, yes, yes!” I reassured Bobby.

“Okay,” he sat up sharply, “off I go to feed my woman.”

“Yes, go hunt me some bread, you caveman. Oh do you need your shirt?” I asked.

“It looks too sexy on you to take away. I'll just throw on a t-shirt.”

I admired the view as Bobby slid on some jeans over his naked bottom and a white t-shirt over his long torso. He put on some beaten black oxfords.

Bobby glanced over and caught me staring at him. I didn't realize a smile was plastered across my face until he smiled back.

“Come here,” he said, reaching his hand out. I took it and he pulled me to my feet so that I landed against him. His other hand rested on the small of my back.

“You make me happy, Lil. And we are going to live a hundred lives together.” He smiled as he placed the words against my lips.

“A million,” I murmured back.

“Okay, a million,” he smiled, popping a quick kiss on my lips. “Alright, I need to feed you before you get vicious,” Bobby announced as he headed for the door. “Bread . . . peanut butter . . . anything else?”

“Something to drink? Maybe some fruit?”

“You got it, Lil,” he said with a wink.

The door shut behind him, and I sat back on the bed, a satisfied sigh escaping my chest. This is what it felt like. To be on the cusp of the life you dreamed of. To feel so full of possibility and potential. To look at someone and feel like your heart might stop beating because it couldn't handle the swell of joy. To want the best for someone else, who in turn wanted the best for you. For your heart to overflow with love for someone and know just by looking at that person, that theirs did too.

That's when I heard the shots.

We think we know what's happening in our world. That at any given moment, we have a pretty good idea of where we stand with the people we know. That we truly understand our story as if we could narrate it like some omniscient being. But even in our immediate world—the people we see daily, the places we go, the experiences we have—we only see what we want to see from what people choose to show us. And so we only see a fragment of a fragment. Just an angle of any given moment. And that moment is a prism, giving off so many different shadows and colors.

We only see the things we want to see.

I thought I was the only person with secrets: my secret hell, the secret lover who had died and then had come back to life. I was so involved in my own secrets, that I missed a crucial part of my story.

It all started when a handsome mysterious stranger driving a beat up pickup showed up at my doorstep. The neighbors silently wondered who he was. He didn't dress like everyone else, he didn't carry himself like anyone else. While Barbie had been cheating on Stan for a month already, Stan didn't really begin to become suspicious of her behavior until about a few weeks ago. He had been traveling quite a bit and made it a point to pay more attention to see if his gut was right.

That's about the time when Beth Anderson, my next door neighbor, peeked through the fence to find Bobby naked and wet, alone with Barbie. It had to be the most exciting thing to happen to Beth that day, because by that evening, when Bobby walked Barbie home, and the bored women peeked out their windows for the show, the rumor mill had already begun.

Barbie couldn't stop mentioning Bobby to Stan. How he was a war hero, and he had traveled the world. How fun he was and how excited Rory was to have him back. How he had taken Lilly out to Chicago to dance with the negroes. How the women spent their days watching him do yard work for his sister-in-law, admiring his firm, sweaty body while their husbands softened at the office.

Stan got a hold of their phone bill and noticed many calls to a number he didn't recognize. A lake house owned by the Lightlys. Stan got around to asking Rory if he had been up there recently because he was thinking of buying some property, and that's when Rory told him no, but his brother went up there for a couple of weeks recently to fix the place up.

Then Barbie disappeared from the crowd on the Fourth of July, and Stan went back to the house looking for her. He spotted Bobby emerging discretely through the back door, breathless and sweaty. Then he peeked into the empty house and saw his wife coming downstairs.

And yet, Stan wasn't ready to confront Barbie. Barbie was his world. His attractive, tall, blonde, younger wife. His prize. The mother of his children.

Then he got the call. Barbie had been in an accident. He needed to get home right away. It wasn't looking good for her.

He sped to the hospital. She never woke up.

The police told him a man was with her who fled the scene. They wouldn't comment on who. It was because they didn't know. But talk moves faster than sound and when he found out the Chesterfields' boys were the first people on the scene, he stopped at their house. He was golf buddies with their father who was happy to help the distraught man.

The boys told him what they told the police. They weren't sure, because it was so dark. But it was a male—tall, brown hair. They said it kind of looked like Rory, but it couldn't have been Rory. He wasn't in town. His car wasn't in his driveway. Rory was Stan's friend, he was one of them. It had to be the suave guy who had paraded into their town, who piqued everyone's interest and made a mockery out of their lives just by his presence. Whose arrival coincided with his wife's disinterest and distant behavior. The nigger lover. Now, that guy would be the type to swoop in and steal women. Besides, Rory and Lilly were the perfect couple. Two good-looking folk from good families. Rory was the responsible brother with the stable job. Bobby was the vagabond who dropped out of college. And why would any man step out on a woman as beautiful as Lilly?

When Stan asked more, they admitted it could have been Rory's brother. And when he kept asking, they became sure it was.

Stan went back to his house. The next morning, people had already begun to stop by with food and condolences. But not Lilly. What did she know? She knew her brother-in-law had done it. Her car was out front, but she remained holed up in that house. A few “helpful” neighbors mentioned they saw her helping Bobby pack his things in a hurry.

Stan saw how protective she was about Bobby at that dinner, when she snapped at him for the jabs he took at her brother in law. Of course she would help him get out of town.

So Stan got in his car and thought maybe he'd get lucky if he went looking for the son of a bitch. Because he was so afraid of losing Barbie that he didn't step up and protect her when he had the chance. But now he would make things right. So he drove and drove until he spotted Bobby's signature truck, parked at a lonely motel.