"What's it on?"

"Loss."

"Is that why you're crying?"

"Well," I said, pausing to wipe my eyes. "I'm halfway through, and it's obvious he doesn't know what he's talking about."

She smiled.

"But that's not why I'm crying."

I reached over to give Sam a different crayon. Teddy had lifted the shade and was stretching up to look out the window. He named the clouds. Popcorn. A doggie.

"Good, Teddy," I said. "That's good." I turned back and found the woman waiting with a small packet of tissues.

"You were saying?"

"Oh," I said, and this I whispered: "I cheated on my husband."

"I see."

From her lack of reaction, I could've said, "I'm from Northern California" or "I like the color green."

"It was a onetime thing," I said, opening the packet of tissues. "And it's over."

"Do you still love your husband?"

I nodded.

"So what's the problem?"

I didn't have an answer. All I could come up with was "Somewhere it went wrong."

"Well, did you die?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Are you dead?"

"No."

"Is he dead?"

"No."

"Well, then . . ."

I waited for her to say more. But she went back to her reading. Then the pilot came over the intercom and said we'd begun our descent.

During the taxi ride from the airport, the boys fell asleep. This gave me time to gather myself for my reunion with Tim. I decided not to tell him what I'd done with Jeff at Disney World. This was a go-to-the-grave secret. Never to be told. What would it serve to let him know how nice it was (because at first it was) to kiss Jeff again and do other things again? This was my plan. Could I (the astonishing keeper of secrets) keep this secret? Yes. Would he be able to tell when he looked into my eyes-would he know that something had happened?

When the taxi pulled up in front of our building, I didn't see Tim sitting on the stoop. But there he was, waiting. He looked unsettled, wild-eyed. I signaled that both boys were asleep, and we busied ourselves getting them up to the apartment, careful not to wake them.

Our apartment was spotless. Cleanest ever. Tim had sorted through papers. Cleared shelves. Organized our overcrowded medicine chest. Bagged up outgrown clothes for Goodwill. He had fixed the broken cabinet door.

He could see I was pleased. He smiled at my reaction. And that was when I noticed.

"Honey, what happened to your tooth?"

He didn't want to say.

The story of the chipped tooth was told, and I was laughing, we both were, until it led to the other, bigger story, the story he didn't want to tell, but for some reason he couldn't stop, and as he talked, as it slowly dawned on me where this was all headed, I was filled with an intense mix of feelings-sick and achy, sad. It was kick-in-the-gut painful. I even felt a strange admiration for him as he fumbled his way through the details, for this was why I had first loved him. Mostly, though, I tried to listen as the tears fell, just listen, all the while knowing that when he was done telling me everything, it would be my turn to do the same.

BEA MYERLY.

WHEN MR. WELCH APPROACHED ME ABOUT ADDING MY VERSION OF THINGS TO THIS story, I told him I would only partic.i.p.ate on one condition: I get to write the end. I thought he would refuse. Instead, he agreed immediately. I a.s.sumed Mr. Welch or his ex-wife would want to have the last word. (Point of fact, I'm not sure if she's an official ex-wife yet.) No one is more surprised than I am that I'm left to finish telling this story, that I'm the one chosen to make sense of all this ruin.

On a personal note, when Mr. Welch gave me what he'd written, I found a cozy spot in my room and began to read. I didn't get far. Pug-nosed little chunk of a girl? Barrel-chested? A cl.u.s.ter of pebble-sized pimples dotting my fleshy forehead?

I couldn't believe it! So I confronted Mr. Welch. "How could you distort me this way? This is how I look to you?" "Of course not," he said, "but at that time you were an annoying student, and that's how all annoying students look to me."

Needless to say, I didn't read any more.

So the end.

The BHA Annual House and Garden tour was a huge success. They kept the Ashworth-Brody house open two extra hours to accommodate the record crowds.

The next day Anna Brody and Philip Ashworth left the Heights for good. Within days, a fleet of moving vans arrived and the house was emptied. For a while, it was all the talk-where did they go, why did they leave, was it something we did?

All anybody knew was they were gone, and their empty house was on the market. Frida Fabritz got the exclusive, but my dad says now no one can afford the house, so good luck, Frida. By the fall, everybody was talked out about the Ashworths. Maybe because the whole world had started to fall apart. My mom and dad ask me all the time if I'm worried about the future. They can sense I'm upset-and I am, but not about what they think.

I'm upset about what happened with Mr. Welch and his ex-wife.

There were such clear lessons in this story. Mr. Welch tries to cheat on his wife, and she kicks him out. I a.s.sumed she kicked him out. I didn't know. It was my fantasy. (Obviously, they weren't meant for each other. Right? He was meant for me! Joking. Not.) All I knew was that when Mr. Welch was scrambling to find a place to live, I got my parents to rent him our garden apartment at a reduced rate. Meaning: for free.

He moved in on the first of August, the same day Mrs. Welch took their boys out of state for a two-week vacation. At night I could put my head up to the radiator and hear Mr. Welch's m.u.f.fled crying.

Now that he's back at Montague, kids ask me what it's like having a teacher living in the same house. I say, "He's a tenant, and he's in the bas.e.m.e.nt with his own entrance." I don't explain that having him under the same roof feels right.

I see Mrs. Welch sometimes, although I don't know if I'm supposed to call her Mrs. Welch anymore. She got a new apartment. She tries to put on a good face in her new job at the Public Library. But she doesn't look the same. Tired. Worn out from it all.

Truth is, I don't know what to think. I don't understand people! Next year I go to college, and I'm more confused than ever!

I'm sorry for that outburst. I'm . . . I'm having a hard time . . . oh G.o.d.

You see, this morning my dad told me that Mr. Welch said he would be moving out soon.

I didn't see it coming. "Where's he going?" I said, in a panic. "Where?"

"I didn't ask," my dad said. "I don't think it's our business."

So I made it my business.

I waited until he left the house, and I followed him. I kept my distance, but I didn't let him out of my sight. He didn't walk toward the Heights, as usual. Instead, he went the opposite direction, through Cobble Hill, deep into Carroll Gardens. As he walked, I saw him in a new way. Or maybe he was always small and I just never noticed.

When he disappeared around a chain-link fence, I waited a bit before crossing the street. Here's where I saw the most baffling sight in the short history of my life.

Mr. Welch was sitting on a bench talking to a woman whose face I could not see. I pressed up to the fence to get a closer look. The woman was Mrs. Welch. What were they doing? This is where it gets hard and confusing. He was saying something, she was laughing, and they were holding hands.

Now would someone please explain that to me.

1.

What follows is the most important thing I ever learned in high school. I'd like to thank my high school Driver's Ed teacher, Mr. Rex Lambo, who told me what I'm about to tell you while we both guarded the punch bowl at my senior prom.

Imagine you find someone attractive. Are you picturing a person? Good. Now imagine you have the good fortune to give this person a hug. Are you hugging him or her? Nice, huh? Now, if, during the hug, this person pats you on your back or your shoulder, you can be sure of one thing: This person will never sleep with you.

I should add that if the person doesn't pat you, it does not guarantee he or she will sleep with you. It merely means he or she might.

Also, if you're a man and you're confused by the above, I've simplified it for you-if she pats, you'll be left holding your own bat.

There you have it. The truest thing you'll ever hear.

ALSO BY PETER HEDGES.

What's Eating Gilbert Grape.

An Ocean in Iowa.