The morning sunlight this close to the solstice was the faint, silvery stuff that felt more like the idea of light than light itself, and it gleamed along the tousle of Sunny’s black hair and the colorfully inked curve of her shoulder.
She was biting her lip, and even with my morning wood valiantly trying to hoist the pile of quilts away from my pelvis, I could perceive that the lip bite wasn’t the sexy kind.
She looked . . . unhappy.
I sat up quickly, ready to fix whatever needed fixing, because the mere thought of Sunny being unhappy was like having my liver tenderized with a meat mallet, but she scooted away before I could reach for her. I could see her laptop half on a pillow, like she’d been working a little bit before I woke up.
“So,” she said, her back to me as she pulled on a pair of fleece-lined leggings with strangely jerky movements. “I, um. Have another date with a potential muse lined up for you.”
I stared at her back, at the way her hair revealed shifting slivers of tattoos. Just last night she’d squeezed my hand as I walked past her at dinner, like it was her hand to squeeze. A few hours after that, we spent so long kissing after sex that she fell asleep with her mouth pressed against my jaw.
And now she wanted me to go on a date with someone else.
My chest hurt, and I scrubbed at it with my hand, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do about this. I didn’t want to go on dates with other people, and clearly—despite me thinking that maybe something was shifting between us—she did. I wasn’t going to be an asshole and press the issue. She shouldn’t have to repeat herself that she didn’t want to be my muse, and that she didn’t want us to be exclusive was painfully evident.
But I did not feel good about this, and worse than the meat mallet feeling was realizing that I wanted Sunny more than she wanted me, that whatever I was feeling right now was not reciprocated. And despite having written reams of lyrics about pining in vain, I’d never felt the misery of it until now. Brooklyn and I had fallen together, mutually and at the same time, and there’d been no one since her to pine for.
. . . And oh my God, this feltawful.
Why had all my songs about unrequited longing been so goddamn peppy?
I slid out of bed too, reaching for my pajama pants without really seeing them, just needing to get myself somewhere—anywhere—where I could brood or maybe stand in a shower about my feelings for a while.
“It would be tomorrow, if that’s okay,” she said. Her voice was a little strained. “I know you’ll like this one. I can promise it, even.”
Mr.Tumnus was on the T-shirt I’d worn to Sunny’s room last night, and he refused to move even as I tugged and tugged at the shirt beneath his stubbornly loafed body. I’d decided it wasn’tworth it and just to chance frostbitten nipples on the walk back to my room when Sunny spoke again, this time her voice soft.
“Isaac?”
After five years of trying not to make Dead Spouse Feelings anyone else’s problem, you’d think hiding a crush on a roommate would be no challenge at all, but my voice still came out tight when I said, “Sounds great. Looking forward to it.”
“Isaac.” This wasn’t a question.
I turned to face her, which was a mistake, because even in a slouchy sweatshirt and leggings, even with tangled hair and unhappiness curving her mouth, she was still stunning. The winter light caught the high apples of her cheeks and the creases of her plush mouth and every freckle on her nose that hadn’t yet been eaten by the Vermont winter.
I had to get out of here. “I’m good. A date sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
She fussed with the too-long sleeves of her sweatshirt. “I know it’s short notice, but I think it might be for the best—”
She was interrupted by my phone chiming with several texts all at once. I picked it up off the nightstand to see the Cat Advisory Text Thread going nuts.
Dee:WE HAVE NEWS.
Judy:The obituary seems to have fallen into a black hole where it’s not online or in any digitized records, but we did find an article about James’s retirement ceremony in the eighties. And Mrs.James Dugan is named there as Mrs.Bernice *Bushey* Dugan!
Bushey.Bushey.
Why was that name so familiar?
Betty came in with the assist, resending the original picture I’d sent them of the names of the fallen Piney Notch soldiersof 1944. Just as I clocked that one of those names wasRonald Bushey, she sent another picture, this time of a pension voucher from 1948.
Judy:Bernice Bushey Dugan is collecting the widow’s pension for Ronald Bushey!
Dee:A whopping thirty-five dollars a month. Hope she didn’t spend it all in one place.
Betty:I still can’t believe she was remarried by 1948. Didn’t she need longer to grieve?
Dee:Maybe she needed to not live on thirty-five dollars a month.
