At 2:50 PM on Tuesday, fifteen parents were waiting at the walker gate.
All fifteen had seen the clip.
I could tell by who looked at me and who looked at their phones.
Monday had been Labor Day.
That gave the internet three days.
By Sunday night, the club's kiss-cam clip had 14.2 million views.
By this morning, Garrett's had 9.4 million.
Somebody had posted Shady Brook in the comments.
Somebody else had posted my room number.
My walkers stood behind me in pairs, holding hands.
Brody Sutter had my hand.
Brody was five.
He was also Garrett's nephew.
A dad by the fence held up his phone.
He read off the screen.
"'She tracked my location.'"
"That true?"
"I'm dismissing children right now," I said.
A mom stepped up beside him.
"My daughter's five."
"I need to know you're stable."
"She's right here," I said.
"I know where she is every minute."
Then Garrett walked up the sidewalk.
His SUV sat at the front of the car line with the door open.
The engine was still running.
He had a cardboard box against his chest.
He set it down at my feet.
It was my mugs.
The chipped owl was on top.
"Brought your stuff, Cal."
"So you stop showing up at my place."
I still slept at his place.
Since Saturday, I'd slept on the couch.
Fifteen parents heard "showing up."
None of them heard "couch."
Garrett gave the fence a sad smile.
"Honestly, this is for my mental health."
"Boundaries, you know?"
The mom with the five-year-old nodded at him.
Brody tugged my hand.
"Uncle Garrett practiced!"
Everybody turned.
"With the sign!"
"At our house!"
Garrett laughed.
"Buddy."
"Car."
Brody didn't move.
"You walked away three times."
"Mommy timed it."
The dad lowered his phone.
The parents turned to look at Garrett.
A woman in the back said it louder than she meant to.
"Brody saw him PRACTICE!"
Garrett's smile stayed put.
His eyes didn't.
"He's five, guys."
"He watches a lot of TV."
I knelt down on the sidewalk.
Brody's shoelace had come untied.
I tied it.
Double knot.
"Thank you for telling the truth, Brody."
He nodded very seriously.
I stood up.
Behind Garrett's SUV, somebody leaned on a horn.
Then a second car did.
I looked at Garrett.
I used my car-line voice.
"Car line moves forward, Garrett."
He took Brody's hand.
He left the box.
He buckled Brody in and drove off.
The horns stopped.
The mom with the five-year-old didn't look at me.
She looked at the box.
I carried the mugs back to Room 104 myself.
His clip played in my head all the way down the hallway.
I'd watched it once, on Sunday, two minutes after he posted it.
Once had been enough.
He'd filmed it in his car, in soft light, in a gray hoodie.
Why I Did It on the Kiss Cam
"Nobody set this up."
"I made that sign in my kitchen."
"Sharpie on poster board."
"She showed up at my office."
"Bri and I met after."
"Fate."
Bri was the woman in teal.
That was all I knew about her.
At 3:20 PM, Room 104 was empty except for one girl.
She was waiting on her grandmother.
She sat by the charging cart with her backpack still on.
"Miss Callie?"
"The iPad keeps saying Garrett."
The class iPad was buzzing on the bottom shelf.
It had a blue rubber case.
Alphabet stickers ran down the side.
Garrett had donated it in August 2025.
He'd called it "my iPad" all year.
"My iPad's got the good playlists, Cal."
It was still signed in to his account.
The kids loved his music.
I picked it up.
The screen was full of blue bubbles.
All of them were his.
The thread was saved under a name.
Bri 💘
The date at the top said Thursday, September 3.
That was two days before our anniversary.
The time said 9:47 PM.
I read it standing up.
Then I read it again sitting down, in a chair built for a five-year-old.
Sat. Bottom 6th.
Cam 4 on 112 Row F.
T's guys printed the sign today.
I walk, they cut to you in 113.
I didn't know anybody called T.
Garrett had never mentioned a T.
The grandmother knocked on the door.
The girl ran to her.
I waved goodbye like nothing was wrong.
Then I took out my phone.
I photographed the screen.
My phone stamped it 3:22 PM.
I checked the photo.
Every word was sharp.
The iPad buzzed once more in my lap.
It was a new message, from someone else.
I didn't open it.
I zoomed in on the last line of his text.
It ended in a kissing face.
Wear the teal. Act surprised.