“She left,” he said calmly. “Said she didn’t want to waste time.”
He said it without bitterness, just like someone describing the weather. Then he looked at me and added quietly, “Peace matters more than a perfect plan.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Over the next couple of months, Robert and I spent more time together. Nothing dramatic, just ordinary things. He came over one Saturday and fixed the loose gutter outside my kitchen window. Another evening, he repaired a dripping faucet under my sink. The whole time he worked, he explained what he was doing like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I remember watching his hands. Large, rough hands with small scars across the knuckles. Firefighter hands. Reliable hands.
One night, a thunderstorm rolled through Cedar Rapids. Robert had picked me up for dinner, but the rain got so heavy, we ended up sitting in his truck outside my apartment. The windshield wipers clicked back and forth while classic rock played softly on the radio. We talked about nothing in particular.
At one point, he looked out at the rain and said quietly, “Life doesn’t need to be perfect.” He glanced over at me. “Just peaceful.”
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