25. Almost Honest
(Josh)
T he kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the wall clock.
I’ve just finished wiping down the counter, rinsing the last pan, and stacking the dry plates.
Kevin’s in the living room, sitting sideways on the couch with a book in his lap.
I haven’t heard a page turn in ten minutes.
I dry my hands on the towel and lean against the sink.
Kevin’s got a copy of The Stranger in his hands—creased spine, pages soft from too many starts and stops.
He’s been trying to finish it since before we moved here.
I lent it to him after we met, back when things were easier—when he still had time to read for pleasure, not just for class.
“You’re quiet tonight.”
Kevin doesn’t look up. “Just tired.”
I nod, but I don’t buy it. The air between us is already doing the talking. “That film night we had tickets to. You said you might invite someone.”
His fingers become tense around the book. “Yeah?”
“You didn’t mention much about it afterward. Did you go with anyone?” I watch him lower the book and peer out the window into the backyard as if he’s trying to remember what happened two weeks ago.
I save him the trouble. “Was it Daniel?”
There’s another long pause. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you took him?” I ask, setting my glass down on the table.
“It wasn’t a big deal, and I haven’t thought much of it since. Besides, you never asked.” Kevin finally puts the book down and looks at me. He remains seated. The great divide between the kitchen and the living room still separates us.
“That night you bumped into him at Baan Sookjai—when you introduced me—that wasn’t the first time you guys reconnected, was it?” He looks like a deer in headlights on a dark Southern road in the dead of night. He doesn’t have to answer.
“I knew it,” I say. “I knew it when that boy told me he was glad to ‘finally’ meet me. What a peculiar thing to say, don’t you think?”
“It’s not like that,” he says.
“Then what is it like? Explain it to me.”
Kevin’s shoulders rise and fall with each careful breath. “He’s from my life before. He reminds me of who I was—when things were different.”
“Different how? When you were confused and fresh out of a straight relationship with a woman? Is that the ‘you’ he reminds you of?”
“No, of course not,” Kevin replies.
“Is this the boy you told me about? That first day, when we spent hours talking at the diner, the friend you had sex with for the first time? The one who ran out on you? Are we talking about that Daniel? ”
The pieces are falling into place.
“Yeah,” he says, “that was him. But that was a one-time thing a long time ago.”
“So that has nothing to do with now?”
Kevin falls silent for a moment. “I didn’t say that.”
His answer isn’t no. But it isn’t yes, either. And suddenly, I’m back in my childhood kitchen in Bayview, the year my father moved out.
~
It’s summer, and I’m nine. The light through the blinds stripes the counter, and the air smells like coffee and fried eggs.
Mom’s washing dishes, her shoulders set. Dad stands near the pantry with his hands in his pockets, not looking at her. I can’t hear what started it, only what’s left. He says, “You’re making it bigger than it was.” And she says, “Then why won’t you say it didn’t happen?”
There’s no yelling. Just the sound of water running too long and the hollow clinking of plates.
I’m frozen, sitting on the floor in the hallway, hidden by the wall, clutching a Matchbox car in my fist like it might anchor me.
Even now, I can hear her voice—quiet but cutting.
“You think I need proof? I don’t need proof.
I can feel when something’s gone.” That house never felt smaller.
He didn’t confess. He didn’t apologize. He just walked out of the room, like silence was enough.
Two weeks later, he was gone for good.
~
That’s what I think of when Kevin won’t answer. That feeling of being handed silence and told it should be enough. It never is.
I move around the kitchen island, not to close the gap, but to remind myself there is one. “So, you saw him before and after I met him—when the two of you pretended you hadn’t seen each other in years?”
Kevin nods. “Yeah.”
“Where?”
“We had lunch. Just once. We ran into each other at Ansley, outside the gym.”
“Just lunch?” I breathe deeply through my nose, steady. “Anything else?”
He shakes his head, but the response feels too quick. “No. Not really. We’ve just run into each other a couple of times and chatted briefly. That’s it.”
“Chatted about what?”
Kevin’s voice drops. “The past. What’s happening now. Work. Us. It’s nothing.”
He stands, but the space between us doesn’t close.
“About us? I don’t need you talking to an old fuck buddy about us.”
I don’t even care what was said. What stings is the silence—how many things Kevin has told Daniel that he didn’t think I could handle or didn’t care to share with me.
I fix my gaze on him—the way his arms are folded and pulled tight across his chest like he’s bracing for impact .
“You talk about the past like it’s some safe little memory,” I say. “But if it were, you wouldn’t be this shaken. So what is it? Guilt? Regret? Or are you hoping for something?”
Kevin opens his mouth, then closes it. His hands tighten into fists at his sides.
“I don’t know,” he finally says. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Have you two had sex?” I ask.
“Of course not.”
I believe him. But that’s not the point. Not even close.
“That’s not the betrayal,” I say.
Kevin’s eyes search mine like he’s waiting for the axe to fall. “Then what is?”
“Not telling me about him. Not talking to me about it.”
He looks away, and I can see his eyes begin to well up with tears. The silence that follows isn’t heavy—it’s hollow, like a vacancy. Like love and trust have already left the room.
“I just want to know what’s true,” I say quietly, “before it becomes something else.”
Kevin maintains his gaze out the window, away from my eyes. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
That’s what my father said once, too, as if intention could erase impact, or being sorry was the same thing as being honest. And just like back then, I’m the one left trying to read the silence and pretend it counts as closure.
“I know.” At the sink, I pour out the rest of my drink. The silence behind me stays still, like it’s watching. “But it did.”
No reply comes. Without a word, I step out of the kitchen—no slamming doors, no raised voices. Left with his silence and my disappointment, the rift is no longer invisible. There’s no going back now.
From the hallway, I see him lean forward and reach for the phone. His hand hovers there, just inches from it. Then he pulls back. A moment passes, and he crosses the room and walks out the back door. The late afternoon breeze hits him, calm, quiet, undeserved. He steps outside without looking back.
I can see Kevin from the window in the bedroom. He’s sitting on the back deck, lit only by the spill of amber light from the kitchen as the sun sets. His shoulders are slumped forward, his hands folded between his knees.
I watch him for a moment. I don’t feel angry—just distant.
It’s like looking at someone trying to remember who they are, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about Daniel.
Was he thinking about Daniel the last time we made love?
He was hungry, ravenous, almost desperate—like he needed to erase something.
I felt it then—the difference—but I didn’t say anything.
Now I wonder when he began to drift—how many times, even in our most intimate moments, he was already somewhere else, already thinking about Daniel.
Maybe he’s waiting for things to mend themselves—or to finally break. All I know is, I can’t keep hoping honesty will walk in on its own.