"You can hate me and still have been happy," Rachel said. "I can love you and still have unlocked the door. People are badly designed for this."
"Don't philosophize on the driveway."
"All right."
He was quiet. A car passed, someone heading to soccer, a sticker on the bumper about the high school band. Ordinary Saturday. The Whitakers stood beside their ruined sugar like any couple discussing whether the recycling had gone out.
"I want the whole story," he said. "Not the highlight reel. Dates, as well as you remember. What you told him about me. What you told me about where you were. I'm not asking so I can punish you with the list. I'm asking because I won't live next to a fog. If we separate, I want to know what I'm separating from. If we don't, I want to know what I'm forgiving. I don't know which of those sentences I'm in yet."
"I'll write it," Rachel said. "If I say it all out loud I'll soften it to survive your face. On paper I can be uglier and more exact."