“Hmm,” he says, because the man is a loud reader in the same way that Amelia was a loud writer. “Huh. Isn’t that something. Oh.”
It’s rather monotonous, his muttering, and I fall asleep at some point. When I wake, he calls to me. “I haven’t left, Harold. I’m sure they’ve closed up the store, so I’m still here.”
And then, after a few minutes, I hear the craziest sound.
Miguel is…laughing.
Not that strange little grunt-laugh thing he does, or the “ha-ha-ha” that he uses when he feels the need to be polite (admittedly, I haven’t heard that one in the longest). No, this comes from deep in his belly. From my bed, I can see that his whole torso’s shaking as he turns the page. “Ohh,” he says to himself, pausing for a moment to wipe the corners of his eyes. “He’s a real dolt, this Giles, but Stephanie knows what to do with him. Oh, that bit with the dinghy was funny. I bet she got that from one of the first trips we took to Puerto Rico, when I insisted on taking my cousin Luis’s boat out and nearly got us stuck.”
He’s talking about the story where the woman goes looking for her missing father but ends up finding love with an eccentric sailor whom she hires to help her track him down. Like in most of Amelia’s novels, things really go south once the ill-suited duo team up—in this case, to head to the tiny island where her father’s hiding out. Only for a while, though. The heroine stops trying to do everything herself, the sailorgets over his fear of commitment and declares his love, and after a few more missteps that make them prove their devotion to each other, they sail away to happily ever after.
“Couple more pages,” he calls tome.
He doesn’t need to assure me; I’ve already vowed not to prioritize my own comfort over his ever again. Except…what if I’m wrong and he’s right and it reallyistoo late? After all, Amelia will never know that he’s read her work, let alone enjoyedit.
It’s another hour before he gets off the sofa. After taking me outside to pee, he serves me more special food, then makes himself a bowl of cereal. “Have to use this milk before it turns,” he says, taking the bowl back to the sofa. He shovels the cereal into his mouth absentmindedly as he keeps reading.
“Giles is being so stubborn, Harold,” he says to me. “I don’t know how he’s ever going to redeem himself at this point.” The sun’s starting to set, and he’ll need a flashlight soon if he wants to continue. He places the paperback on the coffee table.
I wait for him to say or do something, but it’s back to being creepily quiet. I belly-crawl over to the sofa, where Miguel’s still splayed out, and see that his torso’s shaking again. This time, though, he’s not laughing. He pulls his hand from his face, and beneath his reading glasses, all the tears he hasn’t shed yet are finally running rivers down his cheeks. “Oh, Harold,” he sobs. “I miss her so, so much.”
My heart hurt before, but now the ache is unbearable.
What have I done?
Thirty-Eight
Miguel weeps and weeps, and the longer it continues, the worse I feel. Yes, I wanted him to read Amelia’s books. But Giles and Stephanie’s happily ever after must have seemed cruel. And reading his name in the acknowledgments—which was always her favorite part of the book to write—was probably rock salt in his gaping wounds.
I messed it all up, and I have no idea how to fix it. I get right next to him on the sofa and attempt to put my head on his lap, but he just curls into himself, armadillo-style, and continues to cry.
Even after he finally stops weeping, he refuses to budge. I try whimpering, then pawing at him. “It’s nearly dark. Go to sleep, Harold,” he mumbles. “You need to heal.”
That makes two of us,friend.
I don’t go back to my bed, though. I have to keep an ear out for Miguel in case he needsme.
The crying must have exhausted him because he passes out on the sofa with his mouth hanging open and his T-shirt hitched up past the odd crater in his stomach. The house ishot and stuffy, but it still doesn’t seem right, seeing his nearly hairless body all uncovered like that.
It’s a fitful night; I keep waking abruptly, forgetting where I am, then having to relive the entire fiasco all over as I remember why Miguel and I are both in the dark in the living room.
The sun’s just begun to rise when he finally stirs. He rubs his eyes and glances around with confusion, like he’s forgotten how he got there. “Morning, Harold,” he mumbles atme.
Morning?That’s all he has to say? How about,Don’t worry, I’ll never read another one of these novels again, so you don’t have to lie awake fretting about me,or,Sorry I gave you such a scare. How about we put this book back where it belongs and pretend this never happened?
He glances down at himself and wrinkles his nose. “Good thing the water’s still on. I’ll need a shower after I feed us.”
Thankfully, he pulls on his shorts before he grabs the newspaper from the front stoop. Then he strolls past the rest of Amelia’s novels, which are still in a pile on the living room floor, and into the kitchen, where he serves me my medicine and what’s left of the special food, and himself a bowl of dry cereal.
A return to normalcy! Granted, it’s not my preferred variety of normal, but it’s a step up from last night. Dare I trustit?
“Evsclsd,” he says, peering at the paper he’s just unfolded.
I stop eating and stare at him. Say what?
He swallows his mouthful, then says, “Everything’s closed—whole state’s basically shut down and it’ll probably stay that way for another day or so. No idea how they printed the paper, but at least we know not to get too excited aboutair-conditioning.” He motions to the back door. “Come on. I’ll let you out.”
I do have to pee, so I amble over to him. “Take it easy,” he tells me, helping me down the deck stairs to the patio, then onto the grass. Hard isn’t an option; my right hip aches something awful today, and my chest feels like fire ants are setting up shop. It takes a long time for me to relieve myself, and I nearly wet my own leg in the process. Thank goodness Miguel’s the only one to witness my infirmity.
