But the truth wouldn't have served any purpose either.
Fifty years in my last life hadn't been enough to warm her heart. I wasn't going to spend this life trying again.
Peter stubbed his cigarette out on the rim of the trash can.
He patted my shoulder, turned, and walked back into the hospital room.
The door didn't close all the way. A sliver of light cut through the gap.
I didn't look inside.
About twenty minutes later, Peter came out supporting Kirsten.
She saw me, and something shifted in her expression.
It wasn't the kind of shift from a smile to no smile. It was something more complicated than that, harder to name.
Part awkwardness, part guilt.
But she collected herself quickly.
What replaced it was a wall of cold.
"I'll drive you two home," I offered.
Kirsten didn't look at me. She gave a small nod.
She was leaning her entire weight against Peter, one hand gripping his arm, knuckles white.
Like if she let go, he'd vanish.
Like if she loosened her fingers even slightly, he'd disappear.
At the car, I pulled open the rear door for them.
Kirsten pressed close to Peter in the backseat, practically molded against him.
I started the engine. The air conditioning blew cool against my face.