Same as she always did, Sami tried to ignore his red-rimmed bloodshot eyes, ruddy face, the way he sniffed back his tears and fought a runny nose, the way he avoided her gaze. Turning the car around in the tiny space and edging it down the hill took all of his attention, but still she could see his finely chiseled profile no matter how he held or turned his head. As surreptitiously as she could, she pushed her left hand beneath his hair to lay it on his back. All this time. All these years. And his love, his pain, his grief were all still as fresh and raw as they had been in 1966. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he felt or what was going through his head. And she didn’t want to. But she wanted to comfort him if only she knew how. Her inability to do this left her empty and afraid.
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