Only six tables were occupied.
A delivery driver carried two boxes inside.
Ten minutes later, Geoffrey walked out.
He looked thinner.
He stood on the sidewalk reading something on his phone.
Then he sat on the low brick planter outside the restaurant and put his face in his hands.
I almost got out of the car.
Every instinct I had as his father told me to cross the street.
Sit beside him.
Ask what was wrong.
Tell him we would figure it out.
That instinct did not vanish because trust had been damaged.
Maybe that was the hardest part.
You can love someone and not trust him.
You can worry about someone and still know that helping him the wrong way may harm everyone.
I stayed in the car.
After a few minutes, Geoffrey stood and went back inside.
I drove home.
That evening, I told Patricia.
“He’s in trouble.”
