He steps in, eyes take one sweep of my pathetic form—hoodie, limp, bandaged hand, dark circles under my eyes like a raccoon—and sets a paper bag on the counter.
“Bagels, juice, and an apology doughnut,” he says. “And I brought a pack of AAAs for your keypad.”
“You’re a good man,” I say, voice thick with relief that I pretend is about carbohydrates.
“You look like you wrestled a yeti,” he observes, taking in the general aura of a man who has recently courted gravity.
His gaze drops. “And you’re walking like someone angry kicked you in the gonads.”
“Pergola,” I confirm, grim.
He winces, then, because he’s a good friend, doesn’t joke. “You want to tell me why you were roof-crawling at dawn in February?”
“Locked myself out. Dead keypad, remember?” I take a sip of juice and make a face.
“Lois saw my entire ass.”
“Lois sees all,” he intones, then nods at the phone. “You text the Mrs?”
“Tori?” I swallow. He nods.
“You mean theMs. Turns out assuming really does make an ass out of me. And, to answer your question, yes.”
“Yeah,” he says, sympathy aimed at my stupidity lacing his tone. “I just found out this morning.”
Dexter unscrews the battery compartment on the keypad like he owns the place. “You going to text her again?”
“After a bagel? Yes.”
He grins. “Good man.”
I take a bagel from the bag, chew, breathe, and brace for whatever comes next.
Tori’s name sits at the top of my messages. I don’t know what she’ll say. I don’t know if she’ll come over or tell me to give her space or send a single period that meansheard. I don’t know if I’ve done too much damage with my shitty words, terrible timing, and stupid porch pantomime.
But for once, I’m willing to sit in not knowing. To wait like a man who understands the difference between wanting and deserving, between love and possession, between noise and care.
My phone buzzes.
For the first time all morning, the coin behind my eyes cools, just a fraction, like maybe, just maybe, the worst thing I’ve done today won’t be the only thing that defines it.
Tori, 7:25 a.m.: Your neighbor saw your naked ass?
I yell at Dexter, “You fucking told Alis?!”
THIRTY-THREE
TORI
Like any normalhuman being with an eight-to-five, I am not a fan of Mondays. But today… this one feels different.
The ink is dry. Papers are filed. There’s no more almost, no more waiting.
Yes, the judge still has to give his official stamp of approval, but Jake has already assured me there won’t be any hiccups.
For all intents and purposes, I am walking into work this morning without the invisible weight of someone else’s name pressed against mine.
Although I’ve been going by Victoria Foster for the last seven months, I’ve still carried another name for so long that it feels foreign to imagine myself without it.
