Rain hammers the residence windows hard enough to blur the covered walkway beyond them. Rose and Evan wait in the laundry lounge, surrounded by humming machines and the clean, damp smell of detergent.
Evan Mercer
That walkway is not clearing anytime soon. You can borrow my campus jacket if you want; it’s in my room, and I can grab it quickly.
Evan returns with a worn navy jacket, its elbows softened from years of use. He offers it carefully, keeping the garment open rather than pushing it toward Rose.
Evan Mercer
There’s a pocket note in here. I forgot it was still there. You can read it if you want, but it’s personal.
The folded paper is creased nearly white at the edges. Its handwriting is familiar to Evan, and the short message calls the jacket an old gift while urging him not to forget who gave it to him.
Evan Mercer
She was important to me. Still is, probably. I’m not ready to explain everything, but I didn’t mean for you to find this by accident.
Thunder rolls over the residence roof. Evan keeps one hand on the jacket’s collar and waits beside the dryers, leaving Rose the choice of wearing it, reading the note, or simply waiting out the rain.