Page 123 of Puck Me Back to Life

The words settle between us. I pull my hand back under the excuse of lifting my coffee.

Angela lets me. That's one of the reasons we're still friends. She knows when to push and when to give me room to pretend I haven't been pushed.

I take another sip, but the coffee has gone lukewarm.

For a while neither of us says anything. Cleveland jumps onto the outdoor chair beside me and begins aggressively cleaning one paw, entirely uninterested in human suffering.

Lucky bastard.

Angela exhales slowly. “I've been worried about you.”

“That's unnecessary.”

“Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like caring about you is irrational.”

I don't answer.

She studies me for a moment. “I hear you sometimes.”

My stomach drops. I know exactly what she means before she finishes.

“The walls aren't as thick as you think.”

I stare out over the city. The embarrassment is immediate.

Hot.

Suffocating.

“I didn't realize.”

“It's not every night,” she says quickly, like that helps. “But lately...”

She trails off.

I close my eyes.

Great.

Fantastic.

Wonderful.

Exactly what every adult man wants to learn over morning coffee: that his neighbor can hear him crying through the walls.

“Kai.”

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.” The words aren't harsh. That's somehow worse.

Angela rests her mug on the railing. “Have you talked to your therapist lately?”

The question lands with surgical precision.