She peered out the windshield. “Is this…Palisades?”

“It is.” Peter maneuvered the Mustang down a smooth blacktop road, and a

brown wooden sign confirmed Palisades Park, in yellow letters. “The

playground is gone, but the rest is pretty much the same.”

“I loved that playground. It had that one long slide with the tunnel in it.” She remembered going down headfirst, getting a friction burn on her elbow.

They breezed slowly between stands of trees, early evening sunlight

mottling the shiny red hood of the car. It was picture perfect. They slowed and

then stopped at a pullout. Down a short hill and through a few trees sparkled a

wide lake.

She shaded her eyes with her hand. “I'm trying to remember…this is the place with the little beach, right?”

“Sure. Didn't you go there with the senior class after prom?”

A stiffer breeze blew in off the lake. She shivered once and folded her arms

to warm herself. “I didn't go to prom.”

“Oh…I thought you went with Adam?”

She shook her head. “By then I had one foot out the door. I couldn't wait to

graduate.” She glanced at him and then back at the lake. And I didn't go to the Homecoming Dance either.

Peter shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “I always forget how cold it

gets here. I should probably put the top up.” He flipped a switch on the lower left dashboard.

A motor whined as the black top of the convertible unfolded, then snapped

into place around them. The car seemed smaller, almost claustrophobic.

He shifted the Mustang into gear. “I guess we'd better head back.”

As they traveled out of the park, Kate could think of nothing to say. It all felt

so…weird. The shops, the plant, the park. What was it they said? You can never go home again?

They moved east through the outskirts of town, then back onto Eagle Bluff

Road, the one high up next to the Mississippi. These were some of the older houses, almost Cape Cod-like, with green shutters and slate dormers, perched up

on the craggy limestone bluffs overlooking the river. One of the more

picturesque parts of Golden Grove.

Peter turned left onto Park Road, and now some of the houses were looking

familiar. That white house was where she had her first sleepover with…she couldn't remember her name. The brick house—Neil something-or-other's—

where she got stung by a wasp on his tire swing and his mom put baking-soda

paste on her leg. Mostly memories from grade school. High school memories, on

the other hand, were scarcer.

And then, as if on cue, the familiar brown and red brick of the high school

building flowed past them on the right. It looked smaller, for some reason. It still said GOLDEN GROVE HIGH SCHOOL etched in stone over the wooden front

doors, but a newer, brown and white sign on posts near the front said

Community Center.

Maybe it was because she had just been thinking about wasps, but it felt like

something had stung her inside. Not hot and sharp, but cold and deep. She looked forward through the car windshield as it rolled on.

Peter was as wordless as she was during the few blocks it took to travel from

there to their houses. She felt bad, but she could think of absolutely nothing to

say.

“Here we are.” He turned the car into the concrete slabs of his driveway, rolled to the back, and stopped. The engine shut off and the small-town quiet took over again.

“Thanks for the ride.” She tried to unbuckle to get out, but the latch wouldn't

budge. She looked at Peter. “It doesn't seem to want to—”

“Sorry. It does that sometimes.” He reached over, grabbed both sides of the

chrome latch, gave a tug. She could feel the heat from his hands. “Try it now,”

he said.

She did, and it clicked open. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing. Anytime.”

She opened her door and pushed up from her seat. He was coming around the rear of the car, a new breeze ruffling his hair. It wasn't fair, his hair. She pictured herself running her fingers through it…