"You have no idea," I said, "how much of a mess I am."
The admission surprised me. It surprised him, too; I saw it in how his expression shifted.
"Pickle," I said. "Noah. I spent four hours last night watching footage of you instead of sleeping. I called my producer this morning and asked for two extra days on an assignment that was supposed to be over, and I couldn't explain why except thatsomething about this place—something about you—" I stopped. Started again. "I haven't felt this off-balance in years. So don't tell me I have it together. I'm barely holding on."
The car was very warm. The windows were completely fogged now, erasing the outside world.
"You stayed," Pickle said slowly. "For two more days."
"Yes."
"Because of the documentary."
"That's what I told myself."
"Adrian," he said. Just my name. I listened to the tone—soft, wondering, like he was testing how it felt in his mouth.
"Yeah?"
He didn't answer. His eyes were wide, the chaos stripped away.
The car's engine idled. Outside, the snow kept falling.
Pickle's hand rested on his knee. I watched his fingers tap once, twice, then go still.
"I need to go," he said.
He didn't reach for the door handle.
The fogged windows made the car feel smaller than it was. Pickle's face was all shadow and warm glow from the streetlights beyond the foggy glass.
"Adrian." His voice was quieter this time. "What are we doing?"
I didn't have an answer. Or I had precisely the right one—I don't know, something stupid, exactly what I told myself I wouldn't do—but it wasn't the right thing to say.
"I don't know," I said.
"Okay." He nodded, like that was acceptable. "That's... okay. I don't know either."
"Does that bother you?"
"Usually? Yeah. I like knowing things. I like—" He laughed softly. "I like when there's a plan. Even a bad plan. Especiallya bad plan, honestly, because then at least I know what I'm supposed to be screwing up."
"And this?"
"This doesn't feel like a plan." He turned toward me. "This feels like—"
He stopped.
"Like what?"
"Like falling." His eyes met mine. "The part when you aren't sure anyone's going to catch you."
The heat clicked off. Some automatic setting, the car deciding we'd been idle too long. The sudden silence was enormous.
"I'm not good at this," I said.
"At what?"
