Page 54 of Coram House

Suddenly, I feel embarrassed—like I’ve taken off my clothes in front of someone who never asked to see me naked. And it’s a lie besides. It was all terrible. There was one night, near the end, just before Adam went into hospice. He got stuck in the bathroom and I had to help him get up. He was so angry with me, and then he cried. In that moment, I wanted it all to be over more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Our wedding is barely more than a series of snapshots in my head, but the shame of my wanting in that one moment is always fresh. Itmakes me so angry—that of all the memories of our life, that’s the one I’m left with.

“It’s something,” Parker says quietly. “But it’s not enough.”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. I know, in that moment, that he’s lost someone. It’s like there’s some secret underlying sadness I can recognize. Another member of the club no one wants to be part of.

“My kid died,” he says. “And then my marriage—well, I’m not married anymore. It was time for a change. So I came here. A few years ago.”

He says it matter-of-factly. Like reading out loud from a history book, but the pain is there in the stiff set of his shoulders. I feel a mirroring stab in my chest. Adam and I had lives before we met and then a decade together. But losing a child is losing the future. A piece of yourself carved off. So much pain for so little time together.

Guilt leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I wonder if I used Adam’s death to get the information I wanted from him. I’m honestly not sure.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to dig things up.”

Parker shrugs. “They were never buried to begin with.”

The wind has picked up and drifts of snow blow across the ice. “What I said before.” I can’t sayhusbandagain. Can’t saydying. “That wasn’t the only reason I came.”

He looks at me, waiting.

“I mean, I’m not just here to hide. Those kids—this story—it matters to me. I know you didn’t think that when you met me, but it does.”

Parker nods, but doesn’t reply. The silence isn’t tense, though—it’s the opposite. Like something’s been released. I drain my drink. Next to me, Parker crumples his cup and throws it in the bin. Then he takes mine and does the same. “Thanks,” I say with a shiver. Either it’s getting colder or the whisky is wearing off.

“Come on,” Parker says. “Let’s call it a night before we both freeze.”

We hike back up the hill and, even though I tell him he doesn’t need to, he walks me the three extra blocks home. “This is it?” he asks when we get to the purple house. “Your landlord has interesting taste.”

I laugh. “You should see the inside. It looks like a dorm room.”Immediately, I flush at how it sounds. “Anyways—good night,” I say quickly. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Wait,” he says.

I turn back. Parker’s hands are buried deep in his pockets. His breath billows, a cloud of fog. My chest feels tight. I’m suddenly aware of how many inches there are between us. Tiny ice crystals have formed on his eyelashes.

His phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket, and I see a name on the dark screen.Washington.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m on backup. I have to get it.”

I think of how she leaned into him at the bar, whispered in his ear to be heard over the noise.

“Parker,” he answers.

I turn and retreat up my stairs. Fish inside my pocket for the keys. Behind me, Parker murmurs into the phone. Sirens ring out in the distance. I wonder what Washington is telling him, know that I can’t ask. I turn back just as he’s hanging up.

“Listen, Alex—”

“Thanks for this—the drink, the walk. I think I needed it. Sorry for keeping you out so late—have a good night.”

My tone is light, but it feels forced. Like someone trying to recapture a feeling of levity. As easy as catching snowflakes.

Parker pauses for a second and then nods. “All right, good night. Talk to you soon.”

Then I’m inside, taking the stairs two at a time as if I’m trying to outrun something. Upstairs, I twitch aside the curtains to see if Parker is still there. But the sidewalk is empty, just the dark hollows of our footprints, filling up with snow.

My skin feels hot with anger or embarrassment or relief—I don’t want to examine the swirl of emotions too closely. I’m worried I said too much, revealed too much of myself. I feel exposed. Like someone’s peeled off my skin to reveal a mass of twitching nerves and muscle.

I want to call Lola, to have her tell me about her night. But I can’t call her this late. She’ll think it’s an emergency. And I know what she’d say anyways. She’d say I need to get out more. To get my mind off deadkids and bodies and cops.Once in a while, do the crazy thing, she’d say. Or, in your case, I’d settle for a slightly out-of-the-ordinary thing.

I reach into my pocket for my phone and pull up Xander’s number. Before I can hesitate, I type.

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