“What?”
“Some people just stay.”
She stared through the windshield.
Then quietly said:
“Yeah.”
I should have noticed the way she answered.
I didn’t.
I THOUGHT I KNEW EXACTLY HOW GRADUATION WOULD GO
The school had created a special tradition.
Each graduating senior chose one person who had helped them get through school.
When their name was called, that person would walk beside them across the field.
Obviously, I assumed Sophie had chosen me.
Who else?
Every school event since kindergarten, she had hooked her arm through mine.
When she was too small to see a stage, I lifted her onto my shoulders.
When she cried after her first bad grade, I sat beside her until midnight.
When she got sick, I slept outside her bedroom.
When some boy broke her heart sophomore year, I bought ice cream and pretended not to notice she was crying.
This was our walk.
