He sits on the couch and I follow him. His hands go to his own knees and stay there and the restraint is so unlike him that it makes my chest hurt.
Parker walks across the couch and settles in his lap. His hand goes to her back without thinking, the same way he touches everyone.
Neither of us says anything for a long time.
“I don’t know how to start this,” I say.
“Me neither.”
“That’s a first.”
His mouth moves. Not quite a smile. “Yeah. It is.”
More silence. Parker purring in his lap. The fridge clicking on.
“I hurt you.” Plain. No setup. “I asked you to be invisible and you’re not built for that.”
“I know.” He’s looking at his hands. “I put you at risk.”
“I know.”
“Every time I touched your arm. Every time I hummed in the hallway.”
“Yeah.”
“Every time I stood too close and told myself it was small.”
“Yeah.”
We sit with it. Two people who always have words, sitting in a room with none.
“The thing you said,” he starts. Stops. “About whether I want you or whether I want a love story and you’re just here.”
My stomach tightens. “I meant it.”
“I know you meant it.” He’s still looking at his hands. “And I can’t prove it’s you with a speech. I know that. I’ve tried three versions in my head and they all sound like me and that’s the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I always sound like this. I always fill the room. I always make the big gesture and say the big thing and you have no way to tell if it’s real or if it’s just what I do.” He lifts his eyes. “So I stopped. I stopped pressing. Stopped singing. Stopped reaching.”
“I noticed.”
“Good.” His voice is quiet. “Because being still was the hardest thing I’ve ever done and I did it because you needed to see that I could hold you without performing it.”
The sentence lands behind my ribs.
“You don’t have to be quiet,” I tell him. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
“What are you asking?”
“Know what it costs. See the room before you fill it.”
He nods. The nod is small and it costs him and I can see the cost in his forearms.
“The pen,” he says. “In your pocket. You’re wearing it.”
I look down. The rollerball. The firebird on the clip. I didn’t think about putting it in my pocket this morning. It goes in the pocket because that’s where it goes.
