The entire drive home, the man barely spoke.
He sat in the back seat beside me, his hands clasped tightly together, staring out the window as streetlights flashed across his face.
My mother glanced at him several times through the rearview mirror.
“Are you okay?” she finally asked.
He nodded.
“No.”
His voice cracked.
Then he looked down at the corsage still pinned to my wrist.
“She kept the dress.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer.
Then he smiled sadly.
“I bought it for her.”
My heart skipped.
The car suddenly felt very quiet.
