My brain is saying go, but my legs aren't moving.

"Pretty please?" she says, pouting, with that bottom lip that makes me have to sit or run.

So I sit. My head is spinning. I should have left. I could still go, in a minute.

"It's just, you looked all weight-of-the-world when you were watching the library. Now you seem totally happy."

I probably look like a dork.

"Totally cute," she says, playing with her straw.

I don't believe her. But then she circles the straw with her tongue and I don't care.

"So . . . you gonna tell me what's up?"

I shake my head, but clamp my lips together. Can't go yet, but I'm not saying anything.

"I am a very good spy," Harley says. "Maybe I can help with whatever is going on. Natasha to your Boris." She tosses another kernel of popcorn into her mouth with an evil smile. "I'd make a very good Natasha. Well, not good, but you know what I mean, dahlink?"

Um, no, not so much.

"Oh, come on," she says. "Boris and Natasha? Rocky and Bullwinkle? Oh, man, good stuff. The cartoons, not the movies. The movies were bad, even if Rene Russo was seriously hot as Natasha."

I have no idea what she's talking about.

"OK. Clearly, you are not picking up the thread. Natasha is a kick-ass spy. Well, she should be, anyway, if it weren't a cartoon that relies heavily on a moose and squirrel always ending up on top. So, let me be your Natasha and help with the spying or whatever."

She is intently drinking her soda, watching me, with that smile. Nice smile.

"Tell me about the chick with the kick-ass braids."

Whu-huh? "You saw -?"

"Yeah, I did." She shrugs, like she practiced it. "Who is she? Maybe I can help you sweet-talk her or whatever."

My head's saying get up and go, but everywhere else is staying put - except for my stomach, which isn't too happy with the brats.

"Hey, kidding around aside, you seem like a really nice guy," she says, all serious and friendly. "I just want to help if I can."

"I don't need any help."

"Oh, so the first meeting was successful? Or was this a reunion?"

I reach around for my backpack - time to leave.

She grabs my wrist. "Come on, Matt. I can keep a secret." Yeah, I'm sure she can. "And you can't lie for shit." She crosses her heart and holds up three fingers. "Scout's honor."

What could it hurt? And I'm busting to tell someone. And it's not like I'll ever see her again. . . .

"She your girlfriend?"

"No," I spit out, skeeved out by the question. Gross.

"She hugged you pretty hard . . . like she wanted -"

"She was my brother's girlfriend," I blurt. Stupid. I could stop here. But . . . "She didn't know I'm here, and I wanted to surprise her. So . . . I waited. Then . . ."

"Was your brother's girlfriend?" She raises her eyebrows. "She's not anymore?"

"Yeah. Uh, he died."

"Oh," she says, all teasing gone. "Sorry. How long?"

Two hundred and three days. "Seven months."

"That sucks. I'm sorry."

"S'OK." I slurp at the watery soda at the bottom of my cup to try to open my closing throat.

"Hey," she says, leaning forward. "I'm really sorry. How can I help?"

I look out at the lake, back at her. "Um, thanks, but, really, there's nothing you need to do." It's done. The hard part's done.

Then I'm holding the picture. I didn't mean to take it out. But I did. So, I just keep it in my hand, play it cool.

Like in slow motion, she reaches over and traces my fingers. She turns my hand over. My fingers tingle, waiting for hers. But she grabs the picture instead.

"No, wait -"

"She's pretty. And the kid's cute." I clench my hands.

"Give it back."

"Sure," she says, nodding, but she's not handing it back.

"Please?" Please. Please. Please.

She puts it in my hand, but then keeps her hand there, covering it. "His kid?" she asks softly.

I pull my hand back, shove the picture in my pocket. Nod. My heart's pounding. I should have left. I'll leave. As soon the dizziness passes.

"Heavy."

"Yeah," I say, calming.

"What's she like?"

"She was nice. Meeting her was -"

"No, the kid. Must be weird to -"

"Haven't met her yet."

"When?"

"Tonight." Why am I still talking? Go, idiot.

"Seriously heavy. But good. Hey." Her hand taps my wrist. Sweet smile. She looks different, nice. "It's very, very cool."

"Thanks," I say, barely. Her hand squeezes mine.

"Very, very cool, Matt."

I can't talk, for a lot of reasons, so I just watch her hand.

"OK, well, I have to run." She pushes her sunglasses back onto her face. "But I'm really glad I came over here. Will you stop by and let me know how it goes?"

"Yeah, sure."

"And, for luck." She leans down and kisses my cheek. Her lips pull back and then brush over my mouth. Then she's gone as suddenly as she arrived, weaving between tables and heading in the opposite direction from the one I need to go, taking the last of the popcorn with her, but leaving her soda cup for me to throw out. The foreign guys stare after her, and then look at me like I'm a lab rat. My cheek still tingles where she kissed it. I can't feel my lips.

I PAUSE ON THE BOTTOM STEP OF CELIA'S HOUSE TO BRUSH off my shirt. I had to settle for my least-dirty pair of jeans and the black collared shirt, hung out the window to air out while I showered. I test my breath on my hand. I couldn't find my gum, so I guess it's OK.

Two doors on either end of the porch. I ring the bell for the left door, number 754.

Should I have brought something? I have the letters and pictures - and T.J.'s letter - in my backpack, but should I have brought something else? Like flowers or something? Maybe something for Zoe? Shit. Too late now, I guess. But tomorrow, tomorrow I'll go out and get her something. Like a stuffed animal. That's what uncles do.

"Hi, Matt," Celia says, swinging the door open with one hand, a yellow-and-white dish towel in the other.

"I'm a little early - I know," I say.

"No worries," she says. I can see inside, a short hallway, then a glance of warm-brown-and-gold living room through the open door behind her. "Come on in."

I wipe my feet off on the mat outside her door, twice, then follow her in.

The room is nice. The walls look like they've been covered with brown suede, like if I touched them they'd be soft and plush. Furniture, tables, stuff on the walls. A home.

"Have a seat. I just need to finish one thing for dinner, then we can talk. Can I get you something to drink? Soda? Iced tea? Juice?"

"A soda'd be great, thanks. But, uh . . ." I look around, looking for Zoe.

"Zoe?" Celia asks. "She's at a neighbor's." Missy's, probably. "I thought we should talk first." Celia's face is so serious, cautious, more cautious than at the library even.

"Oh, yeah." I bite my lip to hold down the smile I can feel coming. "OK." Don't act like an idiot.

"And my brother will be home soon, too. So . . ." She stares at me. "He'll come by, when he gets home."

"Great." I try to look cool, but happy, like I'm totally excited to meet her brother. But what if I look too excited, or stupid. Or . . .

"I'll get that soda. Coke OK?" I nod. She waves toward the couch behind me and then heads across the room and through a doorway. I lean my backpack against the side of the couch before sitting down, and then wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. I can't believe I'm here.

Across the room, near the door, is a long table with lots of pictures on it, including a couple of pictures that look familiar, even from here.

I get up to take a closer look. At the far end of the table is the picture of Celia, T.J., and the other two guys around a table with an umbrella, beach behind them, all of them relaxed and laughing at the camera. Behind it is one of Celia standing next to the lighter-skinned guy from the vacation photo, who's holding Zoe. Could this be her brother? His skin is lighter than Celia's, but they're standing close. Here he is in another one. And another. Must be.

"Here," Celia says, leaning out from the kitchen to hand me a glass with ice and soda, bubbles fleeing up the side of the glass.

"Thanks." The glass is already slick with condensation. I concentrate on not dropping it.

"I'll be right back. Then we can talk."

I turn my attention back to the pictures. I let my eyes slide over them, and slowly move back down the table. A formal picture of a younger Celia in her uniform. One of an older couple - must be Celia's parents. They look nice. Some of other people I don't know. One that looks kind of familiar, Celia holding Zoe, like the picture in my pocket, but with T.J. and the tall, darker-skinned guy from the beach pictures, too. Bet this one was taken the same day. A couple more of just Zoe at various ages.

A big picture of Zoe and Celia's brother. Then a black-and-white one of Celia and her brother at some kind of fancy event - all dressed up and Celia in a fancy dress, holding flowers. Maybe a wedding? Could she and T.J. have gotten married? My heart thuds and speeds up. Was this one from their wedding? I quickly scan all the pictures for their wedding picture, looking just long enough to rule each out before moving on. None. Then back at this one. I pick it up. Needing to see it closer. Something's weird. Celia and her brother, has to be, but when was it taken? Maybe this was at a family wedding, like a cousin's or something? Her arm is linked with his. Maybe they were in the wedding? Her dress is fancy, but not like bride fancy, and she's not wearing a veil.

The front door opens, and a tall guy in a suit shuffles through, juggling some kind of briefcase, two cloth bags, and some other stuff.

"Hi," he says when he looks up and sees me standing there. "You must be Matt, right?"

Oh. Celia's brother. A little older than in the pictures, and with the start of a scruffy beard, and glasses, but definitely him.

"Oh, uh, hi." I carefully put the picture back where it was, adjusting it until it's exactly like I found it. "I was just looking at the pictures."

"I think she has some albums set aside to look through with you," he says, staring at the pictures on the table. "Some pictures of your brother."

I want to say something, but nothing seems right, with the twisting sick feeling in my stomach and the itching desire to see the pictures she's put aside right now.

"So, you're Celia's brother, right?" I take a large sip of my soda and push my hand out to shake hello.

"Uh, no. I'm Will. Celia's husband."

HIS HAND IS STRETCHED OUT TOWARD ME, BUT MY HAND falls away before we touch. The bubbles sting my nose. I try to swallow without choking.

"Will?" I sputter and gasp around the burning sensation. "Husband?"

But Will . . . in the letters . . . I thought Will was married to Missy. A different Will? Unless he's not with Missy, or not with her anymore?

"Yeah," he says slowly, drawing the word out. He thrusts his fingers through his hair. "She said she was going to have time to talk with you for a while before I got home. Guess that didn't happen? Damn."

I look back at the picture. At all the pictures. Watching them realign. Yeah, a wedding - theirs: Celia and Will's. But in that picture with her and T.J., the vacation one, he's with them, on vacation. T.J. knew him. She married this guy, not even . . . When? When did she? I look at the wedding picture again. Celia is younger. Will's younger. Oh, God. My eyes fly over the images in frames. Pictures of Will and Celia, Will and Zoe. On the wall above the table, more pictures. One with him holding a tiny baby while Celia looks on.

"Here, Matt, sit down. I'll go get. . . . Just sit."

The glass is removed from my fingers, and I'm nudged toward the couch. But I can't move. The pictures. There are no pictures of just T.J. and Zoe. None of just T.J. and Celia, either. Like . . . almost like . . . Oh, God, I am a fucking moron. Have to leave. Get out, before they come back. Bag. Where's my bag? . . .

"Matt?"

Worried voice. Fast footsteps.