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Dora’s first instinct, when she sees him, is to duck and hide behind the shelves of the bookstore. Which is ridiculous—she’s a grown woman, a mother of two, and she can handle an unpleasant scene if she needs to. It’s been years since that last 4 AM phone call. He’s probably moved on, or at least calmed down a bit. She’s honestly a bit surprised he’s even still alive. Those late-night drunken calls had been less and less coherent every time, and she had half-expected to hear that he’d broken his neck falling down some stairs, or his heart had given out, or maybe that he’d swallowed one drouamine too many, washed it down with vodka, and never awakened. Or that he had finally carried out his threats to shoot himself. It hadn’t been a matter of if, with Harry, just when and how and maybe whether she’d hear about it.
Her second instinct is to seize control of the situation: walk up to him, overwhelm him with small talk, and then leave before he makes a scene. After that she could firmly ignore him while Mikki picks out a picture book and she looks for that new novel everyone’s been talking about. Winter-something. The cover is blue and violet, she’ll recognize it when she sees it.
Instead, she’s just paralyzed, flipping idly through magazines that she’s not even interested in while she tries to ignore the glances he keeps shooting at her. Either get it over with or go away, Harry, she thinks. She refuses to look straight at him, in the superstitious hope that if she can’t see the ghost, he can’t see her either. Like Mikki pulling the covers over his head to hide from the monsters. But she's not going to cover her ears, and she can't help listening in on his conversation with his friend.
“They don’t have it, Kim. And they gave me a weird look when I asked about it.”
“Weird looks are hardly a new experience for you.” The friend—Kim, apparently—sounds remarkably even-keeled for someone spending time with Harry. “And I did say that a store like this wasn’t likely to carry it.”
“Do you think the—” his voice drops and she misses the word “—bookstore might have it?”
“Likely. If not, they can order it. They're closed now, but we could go next Sunday.”
“Yes!” She starts at Harry's sudden exclamation. “It can be a...you know.”
His voice gets quieter again, and she has to strain to hear. She shouldn’t, she should just ignore him, but she can’t resist, because she’s pretty sure he’s talking about her.
“Kim, do you see the woman over there?”
“Yes?” This Kim has a calm voice, but she thinks she detects a bit of nervousness. or maybe she’s projecting her own nervousness onto him.
“I think she might be...Her. The ex. What should I do?”
“You could simply leave her alone.” He sighs. “But you’re already walking over there, so you aren’t going to.”
And indeed, when she looks out of the corner of her eye, Harry is approaching. Dora gives up hope of avoiding him—she really should have hidden—and faces him head-on. He’s older—they both are, of course, but he’s aged more than the ten years that have passed since they parted ways. His wrinkles are deeper, and his face sags a bit. He’s heavier, and certainly the worse for wear. He has a very slight limp, and is walking with a cane—she keeps looking at the cane, it’s so odd to see anything slowing him down. His facial hair has gotten ridiculous, and his sense of style is as idiosyncratic as ever. No, that’s more polite than Harry deserves. It’s terrible. So garish and dated that it almost wraps around to becoming cool again, but falls tragically short of the mark. She remembers how he looked in leather, in his uniform: dangerous and attractive. Maybe that was just the haze of nostalgia clouding her memory. Maybe he always looked this weird.
Kim turns out to be a Seolite in a hazard orange jacket, accompanying Harry with a resigned air. He manages to pull off his ensemble, despite the bright color. It’s too bad he’s not giving Harry style advice, or—more likely—that Harry isn’t listening to it.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Harry says. “You look familiar. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but were we…involved?”
She laughs nervously. Is this a pickup line? What sort of ploy is this? Does he really not recognize her? Despite the two children, she doesn’t think she’s changed that much. She’s kept fit and has a good skincare routine. She’s certainly changed less than he has, and she recognized him right away. “Excuse me?”
“Romantically, I mean? I’m Harry du Bois,” he says, as though he could be anyone else. As though she could forget.
“I know.” She sighs. “What are you doing, Harry?”
“Oh, right, you wouldn’t have heard. I experienced an episode of complete retrograde amnesia a few years back. Permanent memory loss. Everything before March of 51 is basically gone.” Her disbelief must show on her face, because Harry turns to his friend. “Kim? Back me up here?”
“It’s true, ma’am. I met Harry the morning after his blackout. He had indeed experienced complete memory loss at that point.”
“I couldn't remember my own name. I didn’t even know what an isola was,” Harry interjects.
“You didn’t even know what money was,” his friend shoots back, before returning to Dora. “It has since been confirmed by multiple neurological experts. He’s been the subject of several scientific papers.”
"I'm sorry, you are?"
"Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi of the Revachol Citizens' Militia. 41st Precinct."
One of Harry's fellow officers, then. Of course he's covering for Harry—they always did. But this Kim seems more serious than many of the cops she's met, and somehow she feels inclined to believe him. He's an odd man: slight build, thinning hair, Seolite features, eyeglasses. Not the macho type she remembers from Harry's training cohort. Self-assured, not swaggering. She wonders how he became close enough friends with Harry that they're spending their time off visiting a bookstore together.
“Anyway,” continues Harry, “Are you Dolor—sorry, Dora? Dora…Ingerlund?” He looks at Lieutenant Kitsuragi again. His friend shrugs, as if to say why are you asking me ?
“It’s Dora Stern now, actually,” she says, reflexively giving the same answer that she’s given all of her old acquaintances on this visit home. She suppresses a wince, wishing that she’d caught the words before they escaped. Harry’s outbursts post-breakup were never pleasant, but whenever he picked up any hint that she was seeing someone else, they grew to catastrophic proportions.
“Oh, so you’re married…” He gets a faraway look, the kind she remembers from before, the one that always made her feel alone even when she was right next to him. Then he brightens. “Congratulations! That’s good to hear.”
That’s certainly a new reaction. “Yes, it is. I’m very happy.” She tosses that out like a challenge, but he just smiles.
“So am I. I’m sober now, and I have a partner. The life kind. And a cat—look!” He shows her a photo that she has to admit is adorable: a tiny calico kitten perched on Harry’s shoulder.
“I’m a new Harry du Bois.” He unfocuses again for a second. “Mostly. A less sad one, at least.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Harry,” she says, as gently as she can. And she is. She knows his sadness wasn’t her fault, he was sad long before she left him, but she’s always felt just a tiny bit…not guilty , exactly, but regretful that she hadn’t been able to save him. She really had tried, for years, until the failures had threatened to take her down with him. But she still sometimes wonders if she could have done something different, if she could say something that would convince him to get better, to move on, to understand that she was right to leave. It’s what always kept her from immediately hanging up on him during every drunken call. It's why she still thinks about him sometimes, and she hates it. She’s talked it over with her therapist. I know it’s terrible, but I almost wish the inevitable would happen, she said. Then I could have closure. But even if it had, she knows she would still wonder.
“Things don’t hurt as much as they used to,” he continues. “Except physically. You noticed this right away.” He lifts his cane.
“No, not at all,” she lies. Ugh, she'd forgotten how annoying his mindreader act was. One of the many irritating conversational tics he had instead of making small talk like a normal person.
“Don't worry, it’s not too serious. I was shot in the leg by a mercenary in Martenaise on that first post-amnesia case. It’s mostly healed, but some days it still hurts a little.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” What is she even supposed to do with this information? She’d often wished that he'd never joined the RCM—the glamor, such as it was, had worn off almost immediately (at least for her). It had only served to make him sad, angry, and tired. Sadder, angrier, more tired. And the injuries and near-death brushes had given them both nightmares. Shot by a criminal was another death she’d expected to hear of, another inevitable end.
“Don’t be. I solved the case, stopped a war, discovered a new species, and met Kim. So it was still a victory.”
The Seolite lieutenant smirks. “Is that really the correct order of events?”
“Obviously, Kim. I put them in escalating order of importance.”
“Hmm.”
She shifts, wondering if this is a good chance to make her escape. She ignores the mention of a new species—Harry has always liked to drop little bombs into the conversation to force her to engage, and she is not going to fall for it. Fortunately, his friend steps in to rescue her.
“Perhaps we should let Mrs. Stern finish her shopping? We have our own errands to run.”
“Right. Sorry, Dora.” He looks at her solemnly. “One more thing. It wasn’t your fault. You already know that, but now I do as well. He—the old Harry—was always going to be sad. You don’t spend six years hung up on someone and then drink yourself into pale-induced amnesia just because you got dumped. The problem was with the entire world. He never understood that, but I do. And you were sad, too, weren’t you? He saved that letter you wrote him. It—”
“Harry,” his friend, mercifully, interrupts.
“Right. And I’m sorry for calling you in the middle of the night that time four years ago. I had just lost my memory two days ago and had no idea what was going on with me back then—physically, mentally, medically. I won’t bother you again.”
“Thank you, Harry.” She gives him her first genuine smile. He sounds like he actually means it. God, she hopes he does. “I really do wish you all the best. And your…girlfriend? Or was it fiancée?”
“We usually say ‘partner.’ But we’re hoping to get married someday.” He looks faraway again. “I wish you the best, too. And your husband and kids.” Had she told him about the kids? Maybe he saw her with Mikki earlier, but Amelie was fast asleep when they left, so Dora had left her in the crib with her parents. Ugh, he's doing it again. She knows he hasn't stalked her—she would have heard from her parents if he'd been talking to anyone they knew, and it's not like the facts of her life get posted to a public bulletin board for all to read. So he’s once again doing that annoying thing where he makes an educated guess and treats it like a mysterious psychic insight. Just talk like a normal person, Harry! At least he isn’t trying to interrogate her this time.
And then his vague expression vanishes, replaced with the cocky grin she remembers from their youth. “I’m still a revolutionary, though. Liquidating the ruling class is a life-long project.”
She rolls her eyes, and catches Kim doing the same. Harry sees them both and grins even more widely.
“I’ll stop bothering you now. Good luck, Dora. Have a safe flight back to Mirova.” He nods and turns away from her, and she catches him whispering loudly, “I think that went well. Her voice doesn’t hurt anymore!”
She collects Mikki and buys the entire stack of books he wants—more than she usually would, but she’s glad he’s interested in reading Revacholian stories. She doesn’t want him forgetting that part of his heritage growing up in Mirova. As she pays for the books, she decides that actually, she’s not upset that this encounter happened. She is relieved to know that he’s still alive, closure be damned, and his promise not to bother her again sounds actually sincere. That peace of mind was worth a few minutes of awkward conversation.
Walking out of the store, she sees her ex-fiancé for the last time, being helped into a car by his RCM friend. Neither of them seem to have spotted her. She doesn’t mean to keep watching, but something about the way the lieutenant steadies Harry catches her eye—the way his hands linger on Harry beyond what is necessary, the way Harry takes his hand afterwards. Harry smiles up at the Seolite, saying something quiet, and Dora finds herself staring. She’s seen that look in Harry’s eyes before, or something close to it, but never directed at anyone other than her. She'd forgotten what it looked like when Harry’s vast soul and boundless heart were on full display, as they are now. He gazes at the other man, overflowing with devotion. His friend—his lover?—smiles back at him, just a brief flash on his serious face. She can’t hear what they’re saying to each other, but the affection comes through. No, call it what it is: the two are in love, practically glowing with the joy of it.
“Mama?” Mikki tugs her sleeve, and she comes back to herself.
“Yes, love?”
“Can we get ice cream?”
“Hmmm…” She pretends to think about it, watching Mikki’s blue eyes grow large and pleading. “I suppose so. You’ve been very good all day.”
“Yay!” He grabs her hand and starts pulling her down the sidewalk, singing: “Ice cream, ice cream…”
As Mikki continues his song, she thinks about that last glimpse of Harry. She’s shocked—understandably !—at the thought that he might be a homo-sexual. It’s a rather uncomfortable thought. Obviously it’s not wrong, she’s a good moralist and would never be a bigot over someone's sexuality. Dora is an art teacher, of course she has gay friends—or at least friendly colleagues. But it’s a bit discomfiting to realize her ex-fiancé was secretly into men. Was their relationship built on a lie? He’d certainly seemed to be attracted to her at the time.
And, because she is honest with herself, she can admit that some tiny awful part of her is just the slightest bit piqued that he’s moved on. She’s delighted—and extremely relieved—that he’s no longer obsessed with her, but on some largely unacknowledged level she’d liked being the figure of a tragic failed romance. It’s the same impulse that had driven her towards Harry in the first place, and while it’s been almost entirely superseded by the sensible Dora who just wants a peaceful and happy life with a house, a husband, and two healthy children, she would be lying if she said that melodramatic piece of her inner self was entirely gone. Her therapist has taught her to honor and acknowledge all parts of herself, to make it easier to let the undesirable ones go, so she acknowledges this one.
Letting go is easy. It would be selfish to wish misery on Harry, especially after all of the misery in his life thus far. While she isn’t perfect, Dora Stern is not a particularly selfish person. She loves her life, and in a distant sort of way, she wants everyone in the world to feel a similar contentment. She can’t resent anyone who can look at their partner with that brightness on their face. Even her terrible ex. If he’s found happiness with another man, well, that’s odd, but hadn’t she done the same?
With that thought, Dora decides that she’s glad she ran into Harry. He’s given her a gift: she can finally stop wondering what if. Not because of what he’d said to her about sadness—that was typical Harry nonsense. But seeing him sober, happy, in love makes her finally understand that there was someone or something that was worth getting better for, and it wasn’t her. Maybe it was timing, meeting each other too young, needing to be each other’s mistakes to grow past. Or maybe he’d just never loved her enough. It doesn’t matter. There is no reality where she and Harry are happy together, and in this reality, they are both happy. Apart. It truly wasn’t her fault. She'd always known that she had made the best choice for her—the only choice for her—but now she also knows that it had been the best choice for Harry.
She can’t resist one last look over her shoulder, and in that brief instant she finds herself making eye contact with Harry’s new lover. His face is mostly unreadable, but he gives her a quick nod before ducking into his vehicle. In the slam of his car door she hears the book finally closing on the last remnants of her old life. As she walks with her son down the sidewalk, the engine’s noise recedes into the distance, and Dora feels a string around her heart finally snapping, setting them both free.