I look over at her more tenderly than I should, feel an old kind of missing her in my chest that I wish would just die but it can’t seem to take its last breath. Every time it takes one it takes another and another, and it’s never a last breath. Loving her like this is a kind of breathing that feels like dying. “You could probably be better if you wanted to be,” I tell her. I shouldn’t have because that was a deep cut. Parks’s eyes go round. She looks just like the four-year-old she was the day we met twenty years ago and I feel it in my chest — old flames that never died anyway, the kind that
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