Evan sat at the kitchen table. He had not fixed the shirt. Finn considered telling him and decided not to, because the crooked collar was the best evidence he’d ever seen that Evan Tremblay could fail to notice something about his own appearance, and Finn wanted to hold onto that for as long as possible.
Finn poured and set one mug in front of Evan, then took the chair across with his own. The autumn light came through the blinds at a low angle, catching the silver in Evan’s hair. Outside, a car drove by too fast, and then the street went still.
His mom had called recently and Finn had let it go to voicemail and texted back fine, which was not fine, and she’d responded with three heart emojis and a photo of the dog wearing a Michigan bandana. Her way of saying I know you’re lying but I love you anyway.
“This doesn’t change anything,” Evan said.
Finn wrapped both palms around his mug. “Okay.”
Evan looked up. “Okay?”
“Okay.” Finn took a sip. “Whatever you say.”
“I mean it. Last night was—” Evan stopped. Started again. “It can’t be a pattern.”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying okay like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re humoring me.”
Finn looked at him over the rim of the mug. “I’m not humoring you. You said it doesn’t change anything, I said okay. That’s a conversation.”
Evan’s expression tightened. “You’re not arguing.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re allowed to say what you need to say.” Finn set his mug down. “And I’m allowed to wait and see if you mean it.”
Evan tried to speak. Failed. His fingers tapped once against the side of his mug, then wrapped around it and held.
“You’re twenty-one,” Evan said again.
“You keep saying that.”
“It keeps being true.”
“You’re thirty-eight. You keep not saying that.”
Evan’s lips pressed flat.
“Then you know you’re old enough to stop pretending you don’t want things just because wanting them is inconvenient.” Finn picked his mug up. “Drink your coffee. It’s getting cold.”
Evan drank it.
They sat in the kitchen while the street outside woke up, Evan’s shirt buttoned wrong the whole time. Finn clocked it every time he looked and said nothing, because saying nothing was its own kind of patience, and patience was the only play Finn had that Evan didn’t see coming.
When Evan got up to leave, Finn walked him to the front entrance.
“I’ll see you at the facility.”
“Yeah.” Finn leaned into the frame. “You will.”
Evan left. Finn crossed to the window and watched.
