Claire went inside for plates. Harrison looked at the fire pit, then at me.
"I still think about the bag," he said.
"So do I."
"Was it worth it? All of it?"
I thought of Sloan's smirk. I thought of the bank statement's thin white edge. I thought of eighteen thousand dollars draining through spas and silk while I slept in the guest room of my own life. I thought of deadbolts and cardboard boxes and the rain on Sunday suitcases. I thought of installment receipts and a teacher who asked what I liked. I thought of Walter, who had remodeled the kitchen without knowing he was building me a place to stand when standing became the only option left.
"Yes," I said. "It was worth it. Not because of the bag. Because of the woman who could drop it — and the son who could, eventually, understand why."