3
The house was dark when I got there. Dark except for a light in the back—in the kitchen, which Si must have left on. For me. Because that was Si.
Dark. And cold.
I let myself in. I threw the bolt behind me. I made my way past the table saw, almost tripped on an extension cord, caught myself and then immediately knocked over a sawhorse. So much fucking shit in this house. Which was strange, because once Si left, it always felt so empty.
The kerosene heater was off; Si had taken care of that too.
In the kitchen, a single exposed lightbulb hung from the ceiling where a fixture needed to go in. The light was warm, yellow, and it curled at the edges to leave shadows in the corners. A piece of paper lay on one of the plastic-wrapped countertops.
Call Ed.
Si’s blocky letters. And if that wasn’t signature enough, she’d written the message on the back of a hotdog receipt.
The refrigerator held bottled water, individual containers of yogurt—the Greek stuff, with extra protein—a few perishable protein bars, the kind that were way too fucking expensive but at least they didn’t taste like shit, and several takeout containers: Emperor’s Wok, Fratelli’s, and yeah, two foam clamshells that were exactly the same size as a hot dog.
I took a microwave dinner out of the freezer, carried it into the other room, and set it to warm in the microwave that was currently plugged into the closest functioning outlet, in what would eventually be the powder room.
And then I stood there, hands balled in my pockets, the microwave whirring, as the smell of Salisbury steak started to seep into the air.
Kick the shit out of something.
Grab the sledgehammer.
Bare hands. Punch a fucking hole through a sheet of drywall.
My fingers were stiff as I unfolded them and took the phone out of my pocket. I called Ed.
He picked up on the third ring. “Howie.”
“Hey.” And then it was like I’d stepped off a diving board without looking down. “Sorry. I don’t know—is this a bad time?”
“Nope. We just finished It’s a Wonderful Life.” The faint sounds of movement came. “What’s up?”
And this was where the rubber hit the road, so to speak.
Because you could work on yourself. And you could try to get a better handle on your shit.
And you could talk as much as you wanted about—about everything.
About how things were, I guess. But none of it counted for ass-all unless you walked the walk.
“I’m really fucking angry,” I finally said. And then it all came out: the phone call from the lawyer, learning the divorce had never been finalized, Noah trying to squeeze me for—for whatever the fuck he wanted.
When I finished, my head was better. That blown-open feeling was gone. The red haze had thinned. Instead, I felt tired, empty, cracked down the middle. The microwave dinged, and I realized it had been dinging for a while, telling me it was done.
“Well,” Ed said, “what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. I want to drive back over there and—” Things had never gotten physical between me and Noah; things had never gotten that bad. But there was this part of me that wanted to—to grab him. To shake him.
The way he’d flinched when I’d clapped my hands.
“I feel really out of control,” I finally said. “I feel like I’m about to fuck things up.”
“You might,” Ed said. “We all screw things up sooner or later.”
That was Ed for you. Real fucking helpful.
“You do a spot check?” Ed asked.
I breathed out. There was this pressure that felt like a sinus headache. The microwave dinged again, and I pressed the button to pop open the door just so it would shut the fuck up. The smell of Salisbury steak and brown gravy got thicker.
Finally, I said, “No.”
He didn’t say anything. What I should have said, I realized a second too late, was Not yet.
“So, I’m pissed at Noah. I’m—” God, I hated the word.
“—resentful.” And I made myself close my eyes and sit on the toilet we hadn’t installed yet.
Packaging crinkled under me. “Because he didn’t finalize the divorce.
Because he lied to me. And the first thing he did when I called him out was—was threaten me.
Try to squeeze this fucking, I don’t know, whatever he thinks he’s going to get out of me. A performance.”
It sounded like Ed was washing dishes.
“And that hits at my ego,” I said. It was like draining a blister, like something toxic was oozing out of me. “And you know how much shit I’ve got packed around, uh, relationships. And my sense of security.” But all of that was just dancing with my dick out, so I blurted, “I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay. Everybody gets afraid sometimes. What are you afraid of?”
Of Noah, I almost said.
But that was literally insane, so I said, “You know the house?”
Ed made a sound of agreement.
“It’s almost—I mean, God, Ed, we are so fucking close. The holiday house tour is two weeks away. People with serious money are going to be walking through here. I’ve been hyping it up on this stupid Instagram account for months. And he’s right: if he wants to fuck me over on this, he can. And—”
I cut myself off because—well, because I really was afraid. And that realization was such a mind-fuck that I laughed. A rough laugh. But it loosened something in my body.
“And Si has poured money into this,” I said. “Dumped everything she had into it. If it goes under—I mean, if it was just me, fine, Noah can fuck me over again. But it’s Si’s money.”
“Does Si know?”
“This just happened.”
“Do you think you should talk to her before you make any decisions?”
“Yeah, obviously I should fucking talk to her. What the fuck kind of sponsor are you, giving the most obvious fucking advice in the universe?”
Ed laughed on the other end of the call.
“What about the rest of it?” he asked.
The rest of it meant my part. Because that’s one of the things you learn when you’re in recovery. You’ve always got a part in it.
“I should have taken care of that fucking divorce myself,” I said. But at the same time, the thought didn’t really make sense. Because Noah was right; I hadn’t wanted the divorce. That had been Noah.
Ed made a sound like he wasn’t impressed.
“Yeah, well, I should have made sure everything was clear on the title,” I said. “And I shouldn’t have gone into this with Si without knowing everything was legit.”
“And?”
I blew out a breath. I nudged an empty box with one boot.
“And I shouldn’t have lost my temper with Noah.
I should have kept things polite. I should have been civil.
I should have set boundaries and then left when he wasn’t respecting my boundaries.
I shouldn’t have let my ego get in the way of my judgement. ”
“Happens to the best of us,” Ed said. “What matters is you caught yourself, stepped back, called somebody.”
I grunted; it was all I could do.
“You good tonight?” Ed asked.
“I’m good.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
Ed was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?”
“I’m such a fucking peach,” I said, “why can’t I be both?”
Ed laughed, and then the call was over, and the last thing he said was “Call me if you need anything.”
And he meant tonight.
I ate standing over the sink, and then I threw away the container for the frozen dinner and the plastic knife and fork. I went upstairs.
I’d taken the bedroom at the back because it had the only finished bathroom and why the fuck not?
I shut the door. Wedged a towel under it because of the drafts.
Turned on the space heater. Most days, the house hovered between fifty and sixty, but the nights had been getting colder, and maybe I was getting soft in my old age.
I stripped. Showered. The water was gray as it swirled around my feet, and for a moment, embarrassment fluttered in my stomach.
What had I looked like, showing up at MagnaCare like that?
And Noah always looking perfect. Even if he was thinner.
The shock of cold after the warm water made me dry off quickly, and then I pulled on clean clothes—joggers and a sweatshirt and thick socks.
I crawled under the blanket, got out my phone, and started scrolling through Instagram.
I started with @secondchancewamo, making sure I caught up on the comments from the day.
Someone wanted to know if the stain we’d found the other day was mold or something else.
Someone else wanted to know if you had to get a structural engineer to look at a sagging floor joist. @lulumama wanted to know if I had a girlfriend.
I replied with one of those horny devil emojis.
One thing about being in recovery? It gave you some perspective. And looking at that horny devil, I had this one, tiny moment of disconnect, because I remembered how much shit I’d given Theo about Auggie.
But that had been a long time ago.
I got out of bed long enough to turn off the light.
I put my phone away. I lay there. I’d hung an old bedsheet—with a Batman print—over the windows because we still hadn’t picked out blinds or curtains or if we were going to do blinds or curtains.
It worked all right, but it didn’t cover the window perfectly, and a little bit of ambient light slipped through a crack and made a pale shape on the wall.
What the hell was I going to do?
Maybe the real question was: what choice did I have?
I’d run away once. I wasn’t going to run away again.
I still had his number in my phone. Blocked, of course. And he probably had me blocked too. But when I called, he picked up on the first ring.
His voice was thick, and it sounded like he’d been crying, but all he said was “What?”
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
He huffed a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh but was sure as hell frustration. “What’s wrong with my voice?”
“You sound like—” But saying you’ve been crying was a good way to start World War III, so I said, “You sound different.”
“What do you want, Howie?”
He was still at work, I realized. He’d be there all night. I glanced at the time; I’d caught him during his meal break—they called it lunch, but it wasn’t really lunch. It was strange how I remembered that.
I wetted my lips. Above me, the fresh white paint of the ceiling showed through the gloom. All the hours. All the days. All the sweat and swears and all that fucking money.
Do you want to be right, or do you want to sell this fucking house?
“What do you want me to do?”