After handing over my ticket, I step back under the awning, taking a spot beside an older Black woman hiding from the rain that’s just started to fall. I watch big, fat raindrops land on the sidewalk in quiet splashes that remind me of tears. The ones Mallory shed because of me. The ones I’ve cried for her. There’s so much hurt between us, a painful history that would make anyone with sense scared to try again. But I’m scared not to.
