Rick seemed different back then.
Or maybe I simply believed he was.
He often worked late in the garage, which he called his workshop, and hated anyone opening the door without knocking. I told myself every man deserved a private space.
Sometimes he took long Sunday drives and returned without explaining where he’d gone. Other times, his phone rang and he stepped onto the porch, lowering his voice while his shoulders tightened.
“Who was that?” I’d ask when he came back inside.
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