I slid the phone closer, my thumb hovering over the glass as a patron walked past with a stack of children’s biographies.
The notification was a public post from Aurora, Nathan’s first wife, who still lived three towns over in Grand Haven.
I tapped the screen, and the image expanded to fill the display with bright, saturated color.
There was Nathan, my husband of ten years, standing on the sand with his arm looped around the shoulder of his sixteen-year-old daughter, Ava.
Directly beside him, holding a paper plate with a cold roast beef sandwich, stood Aurora, her fingers tapping against her purse strap in the way I had seen her do during brief school parking lot hand-offs.
They were positioned beneath a large, royal blue cotton umbrella that looked identical to the one Nathan kept in the back of his car.
I adjusted the leather strap of my watch, pulling it one notch tighter against my wrist until the metal buckle pressed into my skin.
Mr. Henderson, a regular visitor who always wore a faded corduroy jacket, laid a stack of gardening magazines on the counter.
