When she pulled back, she was laughing through the tears.
"The bridge," she said, "is a little weak."
"I know."
"The last verse is perfect."
"I know."
"Your mother," she said, "is going to be impossible about this."
"She's already been impossible about this," said Wes. "She's been impossible about it since 1974. She's waiting by the phone. I promised I'd call from a pay phone the second I knew anything."
Delia wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, smearing the last of the brown liner into a soft smoky bruise at her temple. She looked down at the coin in her hand. Then she looked back at him, and her arched brows drew together a little, and he saw the question in her face before she asked it, the one she would not let herself ask out loud.
He did not take out the green velvet box. He felt it in his pocket, warm against his hip, and he left it there.