I started talking, and it didn't come out in any order.
"His mom sent me—Cath, Bryan's mom, she packed his records herself and sent them." I stopped. "The paper was folded a certain way. I could just tell."
Nora waited.
"There was a note at the bottom."
"What did it say?"
I had to look at the ceiling. "That he talked about me all the time." I paused.
She didn't fill the silence.
"Fuck, Pratt knows none of this—he'll think I'm—we had this album.Rumours.You know, 'Dreams' and all that. Fleetwood Mac."
"Keep going."
"Goddamnit, this is why I keep moving. I can't—God, we went to this Fleetwood Mac concert, Stevie Nicks. Fucking Stevie Nicks. In person." I shook my head. "Doesn't matter. It's on my counter. Don't know why I'm telling you about the album."
"It's okay."
"Anyway, last time—the last time I saw him. This diner, eggs, toast, and two hours of nothing." My hands wouldn't stay still. "After, he said 'call me,' and I said, 'yeah definitely.' Didn't."
Nora was very still.
"I didn't call." I heard how that landed. "I kept thinking—later. There's time. There's always time. We'd been friends since kids. He wasn't going anywhere."
My voice unraveled at the edges, and I couldn't stop it. "That's the thing—always there. He'd be—"
"Sullivan."
"I was angry at him. After. For a long time I was just—I was furious at him, which I know, insane. It sounds fucking insane."
"Stay with that."
"I don't—" I stopped. Started again. "I should have called him back, Nora. That's it. That's the whole thing. I didn't call, and he—"
I couldn't finish it.
I didn't have to.
The stabbing was over. It wasn't entirely gone. I still felt it like pressure in my chest and thickness in my throat.
My phone buzzed on the cushion beside me.
I ignored it.
Nora glanced at it. "Sullivan."
I picked it up.
Pratt:Are you at work
No question mark. I stared at it. My thumb moved and stopped.
I put the phone face down on the coffee table and stood. I crossed to the window and back. Nora watched without intervening.
I picked the phone up again.
