In the last months I’d been realizing that a lot of the things I liked about him — his enthusiasm, his intensity, his wit — were things people didn’t like. “He’s an asshole,” some friends had said to me. Or they’d repeat his name incredulously when I said it. Or they’d tell me stories about this bad thing he’d done, that woman he’d hurt. Other people, I told myself, did not understand him in the way that I did.

Finally he laughed goodbye to the woman and got in my passenger seat. Whenever he was near me, I experienced a sort of relief, like that first inhale when you’ve finally given in and quit quitting smoking.

“Who was that?” I asked and he explained who she was.

I had to turn on the windshield wipers even before we were on the highway. At least, I reminded myself, the tent had a rain fly.

 “Sweetie,” he said. It was a thing we did, calling each other sweetie but with a tinge of irony because we weren’t actually a couple, “are you okay?”

The windshield wipers slapped and squealed and slapped.

 “I don’t know what’s up with me today,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

The park was half an hour north of town. We found the campsite and stood for a moment looking at the water and then at the sky. At least the dreary weather meant we were relatively alone.

He surveyed and selected a flat patch of mostly dead grass and unfurled the tent, which I’d borrowed and was baby blue and big. We eventually figured out its orientation and erected it.

“Is this the right rain fly?” he asked as we tried to cinch down its elastic cords.

“I think so,” I said. The color matched, but it didn’t seem to be fitting. 

“The whole thing must be warped,” I said and he agreed.

I got on my knees and was trying to see whether the cord was catching when it sprung from my grip.