“Thank you,” I say again, because the alternatives are to laugh or cry and I don’t have the energy for either.
“Is your girlfriend mad at you?” she asks, completely unbothered.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say, and wince because that’s a technicality my heart resents.
“And yes. Maybe. I don’t know. She was mad at me before she told me she divorced her husband and then left before I could say anything worthwhile.”
“Hmm,” says Lois, which is a full treatise coming from her. “Women don’t get loud unless the quiet has been ignored too long.”
I stare at her. “Did you just… quote Socrates at me?”
“Eat a muffin, sweetheart,” she says, patting my cheek twice beforeleaving my porch and toddling back across the snow to her house, robe and scarf both fluttering like a flag.
I do as I’m told and eat a muffin. It’s still warm and it’s perfect and I hate that my eyes sting because Lois Schneider, that strange and inappropriate old woman, just surprised me with so much kindness after my morning from hell.
I drain the coffee, as much water as my stomach will hold, and then I text Dexter because that seems like a safe first move.
Leo, 7:06 a.m.: locked myself out. keypads dead. broke my own dormer. frostbitten toes… and pride. also maybe a testicle. neighbor saw my naked ass. please prepare to never speak of this again.
Dexter, 7:07 a.m.: on my way
Leo, 7:07 a.m.: do not come here
Dexter, 7:07 a.m.: coming with bagels
Leo, 7:08 a.m.: i swear to god you cannot read
I set the phone down, then pick it back up. I scroll to Tori’s name and stare at it until I mutterfuck itand just do it. Then I type, because if nothing else, the morning has taught me that silence will not save me.
Leo, 7:10 a.m.: I’m sorry for this morning. Not for what you did—please keep yelling at me when I’m an idiot—but for what I didn’t do. I let you believe something because I was angry. Then you told me something huge and I ignored it. I’m proud of you. Are you okay? Do you need anything?
I stare at the phone, waiting for bubbles that don’t appear. I don’t deserve a response. I send another, because if I’mgoing to be honest, I might as well be honest all the way down.
Leo, 7:11 a.m.: Stephanie showed up uninvited at 6 a.m. I didn’t invite her in. I didn’t sleep with her. I will never choose that again. I know saying it doesn’t earn your trust back, but I didn’t want you to spend the day picturing the worst.
I put the phone down and pace, then regret pacing because my left thigh decides to repossess all the pain from its testicular neighbor. I stop, lean on the counter, and let the hangover and the grief rehearse their grim duet.
George would hate this. He would have stood in my kitchen, filled the coffee mugs, and waited me out.
“What do you actually want, son?” he’d have asked, and I would have tried to make a joke, and he would have let it die. He was like that—gentle in a way that made you tell the truth.
What do I want? I want to stop getting in my own way. I want to stop making the easiest words the first ones. I want to keep choosing the person who keeps choosing me, even when I’m unbearable. I want to knock and then wait until invited.
I want to hold space without filling it with noise. I want a life where I don’t have to write sentences likeI love herin my head without ever actually saying them out loud.
I want Tori on my couch, stealing my throw blanket and telling me my taste in movies is both impeccable and embarrassing.
I want to be the man who hears “I went to get divorced, you dumb idiot” and replies with, “I’m sorry you had to do that. I’m so goddamn proud of you. What do you need?”
Another text arrives—not from her, but from Skye.
Skye, 7:19 a.m.: if you hurt her again i will end you
I type three drafts, land on:
Leo, 7:20 a.m.: Understood.
When Dex shows up twenty minutes later he doesn’t knock, because—oh, look—he has a key.
