A breath. A pause. Asigh. “No. Well, not really.”
My heart clenched and arapid course of cold flushed through my bloodstream. I sat down at the table,tightening my hold on myself. “What happened? Are the girls okay? Do you need—”
An audible swallow camethrough the speaker. “No, it’s not …” A groan wrapped around a sigh. “It’s notthe girls. God, this is embarrassing …”
My lips pressed together,waiting for him to continue, and when he didn’t, I asked, “Areyouokay?”
I think I already knewwhat he was going to say, but I hoped I was wrong. I hoped that he just wantedto talk to me, to have a lighthearted conversation with someone who wasn’tunder the age of ten. To talk about music or TV shows or, hell, theweather. But from his hesitation and theshallow, tight breaths hitting the phone from his end, I knew that was wishfulthinking.
“No,” he repliedshortly, and that one little word opened the proverbial floodgates. “Tess, Ihaven’t been okay in a really, really long time, and I …” His voice broke,sliced with emotion. His inhale was sharp. I imagined him, pinched eyes and ashake of his head, silently scolding himself for expressing the tiniest bit ofweakness. “I don’t know what to do about it.”
My lack of knowledge onthe subject left me without a reply. I didn’t know what it was like to lose mypartner in life, the mother of my children. But I did know how to be a friend,and I stood up from my chair and grabbed my bag off the kitchen table.
***
I quietly climbed the stairs to hisapartment. The place was eerie this late at night. I pulled my key out, readyto let myself in, when Jon opened the door.
“Hey,” he greeted me ina hushed voice, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. “You really didn’thave to come over. This isn’t … It really isn’t necessary.”
I lifted the grocerystore bag encasing a six-pack of beer. “Yes, I did.”
His effort at a smilewas pained and sad. “Gee, thanks. You came over to get me drunk.”
“Not drunk,” I pointedout. “But a little numb, maybe.”
Jon backed away fromthe door, to allow me in, and led us into the little kitchen. He swept an armover the table, pushing aside a few of the kids’ toys, and gestured toward achair as he sat himself down.
I took a seat andopened the bag. With one look at his face, I noticed the darkened circles, thedownturn of his mouth and the dulled glint in his forlorn gaze. “Do you want totalk?” I asked, as I pulled out two beers, even though I was afraid of what hemight say.
Jon shrugged, keepinghis gaze fixed on the table. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Well,” I began, usinga bottle opener on my keyring to crack the caps off the beers, “say the firstthing on your mind. Whatever you’re thinking.”
That made him laughhalfheartedly. “I don’t know if you want to hear what I’m thinking.”
My brow furrowed, as Islid a bottle over to him. “Yes. I do.”
His lips pursed andpressed together, and I thought he might cry. I prepared myself, sipping frommy beer and watching him intently. He inhaled a wobbly breath of air, and shookhis head, shaking it away.
One shoulder shrugged.“Well, um …” His brows pinched. His lower lip trembled, and he bit down.
“Jon …” I reached out,touching my hand to his. “It’s okay.”
He pulled away andwrapped his hand around the bottle. Then he drank. One, two, three gulps. Hedowned half of the bottle before letting it clink back onto the table. “No. No,it’s not okay. I told you. I haven’t been okay in a very long time.”
As words failed me, Isimply swallowed and nodded.
He stretched a handover his eyes, and I knew he was hiding the tears. “I hate …” He pulled in adeep breath and gave his head a little shake. “I hate this so much, Tess.”
“I know,” I whispered,as my hand retreated to my bottle. My thumbnail flicked at the label, a feebleattempt at a distraction, when all I wanted was to reach out and comfort him.
Dropping his hand, heturned to me. “It’s been two years since I’ve written anything. I’ve beenplaying the same stuffover and over again, and I knowI’m boring the heck out of my audiences, because I’m boring myself.”
My hand wrapped aroundthe bottle. “Do you not like playing anymore?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted,shrugging again.
I took another pullfrom my beer, and as I lowered it back to the table, I asked, “Do you feel likeyou’re stuck?”
