“Because your mom made you feel like you had to avoid fights. Because fights got ugly.”
“Fights got very ugly with my mom. She locked me out of the house one night in winter. I don’t know if my father knew. It was below freezing. I slept in the car.”
“Paul. That’s abuse.”
He shrugged. “Well, when you put it like that, it sounds bad,” he deadpanned.
“My mom was neglectful. Not abusive, ever. But she was also avoidant. She didn’t ever want to hear what a mess she had made of our lives. So she died without us ever confronting her or telling her how much it hurt to grow up that way. And I think that made it hard to grieve. Like we had unfinished business. It’s not good to have screaming fights with your parents but it’s also not good never to tell people how you really feel.”
“I don’t yell at the people I love,” he said. “I don’t yell. It’s probably why I like improv. It lets some of the inner chaos out.”
“Lisette said she thinks of improv as a way of approaching life. But it feels like, if I was acting on impulse, I’d hurt a lot of people.”
“It’s different. When we’re up there, we’re making theater. It may not beHamlet, but it’s about finding truths, in some way. But I guess…the way I think of it is, improv isn’t about doing whatever you want. It just reminds me to have courage. To take some risks. When it matters.”
“So what big risks have you taken recently?” I asked him.
“I’m taking one right now.” His eyes were warm and sincere. It took a moment to find words.
“Is this when I tell you about my seven dead ex-husbands?”
He laughed. “Maybe. I’m here even though I may get hurt. And I drew a line in the sand with my mother. She’s not allowed to come stay with me again. She’s not even allowed to call me.”
“Not because of me, I hope.”
He shook his head. “Not entirely because of you. I’m not doing a very good job of keeping things light, am I?”
I smiled. “Shall we change the topic to something superficial? Dogs wearing sweaters? Are you for it or against it?”
“For it.” He grinned, but then his expression shifted. “Should we talk about the fact that you may be leaving?”
I felt tears prickle behind my eyes. “Not yet. Can we pretend that this could work? For just a little longer. Because I really…”
I stopped.
“What?” he asked.
Now it was my turn to be brave. If he had done it, so could I. “I really like you, and I want to stay. And I don’t want to keep things safe now, just because it will hurt more later.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Let’s stop being safe.”
He took my hand, and I felt the heat pooling in my palm.
“Where do you want to go?”Paul asked me. Dinner was over, and we sat together in the parking lot, taking in the night sky scattered with a thousand stars.
“Your place? I want to see your wood stove in action.”
“In the middle of summer?” He grinned.
“This may be my last chance.”
Paul nodded, and we drove there in silence. I watched him taking corners, pulling down streets that he had driven a million times. This was a mistake, I knew. Getting close was a mistake, and I couldn’t stop myself. We were both going to get hurt, and I wanted it. I wanted to care enough about someone to let myself get hurt.
When we got to his place, he locked the door carefully behind us and bolted it, which I’d never noticed him do before. I wondered if he was thinking of his mother. The living room was in disarray—a broken vase arranged in a corner, a few books off the shelves.
“I should have cleaned up more,” he said. “She knocked down a couple of things on her way out.”
“Your mother?”
