That her social calendar is irrelevant to our arrangement.
Whether she notices my departure has no bearing on anything that matters.
Still, I calculate the distance between us—fifteen feet, then twenty, then the length of the entire room—without intending to measure it.
I pause at the door longer than necessary, ostensibly checking my phone but actually listening to her laugh one more time before I leave.
***
Later, at home, I try to reclaim something familiar.
Henry is at the kitchen table, working on something with meticulous focus. Graph paper spread before him, pencil moving in careful lines. I recognize the posture—the same concentration I apply to schematics.
"What are you working on?"
"Design project." He doesn't look up.
I move closer, studying the drawing. Buildings. Infrastructure. Something architectural.
"That's ambitious."
"It's for a game."
Of course it is.
I pull out the chair across from him. Sit. "We could work on the structural calculations together. If you want."
"I'm good."
The response is polite. Distant. His pencil keeps moving.
I used to help him with projects like this.
I suggest an activity he used to enjoy with me. A simple thing. Neutral ground.
"There's that documentary on engineering innovations we talked about. We could watch it tonight."
He shrugs. Returns to what he's doing. "Lindsay said she would watch it with me."
There it is.
Lindsay's name, delivered without ceremony. As if she's become the default answer to questions I used to solve.
"I could watch it too," I say.
"It's okay. We've got it figured out."
We.
Henry's pencil scratches against the paper, filling the silence.
I think of how he talks to Lindsay. How easily he fills the silence around her.
"You know you can still talk to me about these things," I say. "I'm interested."
"I know."
But he doesn't elaborate. Doesn't offer more. Just keeps drawing.
