“It’s not you,” she manages. “It’s all of it. I hate it. I hate what that day did to us. And I thought I could do this”—her eyes slide to the snow through the window—“but being here and remembering . . .” Kyle reaches over and takes her hands again. Then he brings them to his lips and blows warm breath on her fingertips. She lifts her teary face to his. “Are you going to do that every time I remember?” “Every time,” he answers.
