I should behappy.
"That went well," I say.
"Yeah."
"Eight to ten weeks. That's — I mean, she said ahead of schedule."
"Mm."
The cab turns onto his street. The snow is grey and packed along the curbs. A woman is walking a dog that's wearing a coat. I think about the Bellini proposal. I think about Derek's eleventh-hour revision. I think about the fact thatahead of schedulemeans the schedule is shorter, and the schedule is the only thing that was keeping me in this apartment, in this coat, in this seat next to him.
We stop. I pay. He doesn't argue about paying — he stopped arguing about it days ago, which is its own kind of withdrawal. I used to have to insist. Now he just lets me, how you let someone do something you've already decided doesn't matter.
The fourteen stairs take three minutes. I carry the bag. He carries himself. We don't touch.
I moved backto my apartment four days ago.
Not because of a conversation — there was no conversation. There was a morning where I folded the guest room couch back into a couch and arranged the cushions and stood there looking at the room as if it had never had me in it. I told him I'd sleep better in my own bed for a few nights. He saidsure, it makes sense.Four words. No argument. No pause.
I still come every day. Or I did, until today.
Inside, the apartment is warm and smells like the soup Camille left yesterday — she comes twice a week now, drops things off, stays long enough to make Ethan laugh in a way I can't, and leaves. I've stopped minding. I've stopped minding the way you stop minding something because the alternative is admitting that you mind, and admitting that would require being someone who has a right to mind, and I don't.
He sits on the couch. I hand him the glass of water. He takes it.
"Pills are on the table," I say.
"Got it."
I brought him something — the new issue of that outdoor adventure magazine from the dépanneur, with a cover photo of someone hiking in a place that doesn't look like it's trying to kill you with cold. I thought he might want fresh material to read that isn't his phone. I set it on the coffee table, next to the water.
He doesn't open it.
I put away the insurance card. I take off my coat. I go back to the kitchen table and open my laptop and stare at the Bellini slides. The color palette is still empty. I close that tab and open Derek's revision 8 instead — at least Derek's problems have solutions, even if the solutions change hourly.
An hour passes. Maybe more. From the living room I hear the sounds of a man who is alone even though he's not: the scroll of a phone screen, the shift of a body adjusting against pillows, the tap of his thumb on the armrest. Neither rhythmic nor nervous. Just — happening.
I work. Or I sit in front of my laptop and perform the act of working, which involves typing and backspacing and clicking between tabs with the purposeful energy of someone who is definitely not listening to every sound from the couch. The Bellini proposal gains two slides that are mostly placeholder text. The color palette remains empty.
At some point I make dinner. Reheated soup. I bring him a bowl with the correct spoon — the deeper one, not the flat one he dislikes but won't say he dislikes. He says thank you. I say you're welcome. We eat with the television on. The television is neutral territory. A nature documentary. Animals that don't need to explain why they're in each other's space.
My phone buzzes. Sophie.How did it go today?
I type:Good news. Bones healing ahead of schedule.I add a smiley face. I delete the smiley face. I add a thumbs-up. I send it. Then I stare at the message and realize I don't know how to explain to my best friend that the best possible medical outcome feels like being handed a countdown timer and told to be happy about it.
Sophie replies:That's amazing!! You okay?
Yeah,I type.Just tired.
I put my phone down. From the couch, I hear Ethan shift — that particular adjustment, the one that means the meds are wearing off.
"Pain coming back?" I ask.
"A little."
"I can get the—"
"I'll get it later."
