At eleven p.m., the doorbell rings. I don’t think Jacob’s used the doorbell at my house since the very first time he came here. He always used to walk right in.
I scrub my palms over my thighs and pull open the door. He’s changed into black sweats and a soft gray hoodie I’ve seen him wear before, and he looks pale in the moonlight. Pale and nervous.
It’s a bit of a relief to see it. I feel nervous, too.
“Hey,” I say. “C’mon in.”
“Thanks.” He steps inside and toes off his shoes. “Good flight?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Yeah.” We look at each other a moment, then I clear my throat and gesture vaguely to the kitchen. “You want to—?”
“Of course, yeah,” he says, and follows me down the hallway. “Did I see you got a dog?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Morocco. She’s at Heather’s place right now.”
“Ah.”
We reach the kitchen, and stand in silence for a few seconds. “You want something to drink?” I ask. “I’ve got beer, soda...”
“It’s okay. I had, like, three sodas on the plane, so.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Actually, can I use your bathroom? I’ve had to pee for, like, an hour.”
“Yeah, of course,” I say hurriedly. “You don’t have to ask.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine.” He tries to step around me at the same time that I try to step out of his way, and we both laugh uncertainly. “This is awkward,” I admit.
He smiles. “Little bit.”
“We’ll get back into it,” I say.
“For sure.” He rocks on his feet a second. “Right, well, I’m just going to—”
“Of course.” I wave him past me. “Go.”
I drop my forehead against the fridge after he’s gone. This is harder than I thought it would be. It was easy back at the track, when I was riding high on the shock of him showing up and wanting me back. Now, I feel like there’s a ten-month weight hanging over us, and about a million unsaid things.
I hear the bathroom door open down the hall, but a few minutes pass and Jacob doesn’t reappear. I finally peer down the hall and see him standing in the open doorway of the last room on the left, the third bedroom that I converted to a sim room for him.
“You okay?” I ask.
He flinches. “Yeah,” he says. Then, with a strange little laugh, “No.” He gestures feebly into the sim room. “You bought that for me.”
“Um—yeah?”
“I never said thank you.”
I open my mouth automatically to say “It’s okay,” then I stop myself. “No,” I agree.
His lips turn up at the edges, but it isn’t a happy expression. “I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks.” I hesitate, then add, “Why didn’t you? I mean... if you want to talk about it.”
“I want to,” he says. Then he smiles crookedly. “Well, I don’t want to, really. I hate talking about things.”
“Really?” I say, in a tone of feigned surprise. “I never noticed.”
