Page 38 of How to Walk Away

She blinked.

So I said it again. “All your being here can possibly do is make things worse.”

“What if I bring you cupcakes?”

“No.”

“What if I bring trashy novels and spring rolls from that Thai place you love?”

“No.”

“Don’t just send me away,” she said. “Let’s talk about it. Let’s rap it out.”

She was being cute, but I had no patience for cute. “I’m serious,” I said. “Get out. Go home. Go back to New York, even. You are something I just can’t handle right now.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Both.”

***

KIT LEFT, BUTshe came back again the next night, just as I was finishing dinner. With cookies.

I sent her away.

She came after dinner the night after that with macarons, and I sent her away again.

And then, on the night after that, when she didn’t show up after dinner, I noticed I was disappointed. I was waiting to see her. More than that: The idea of seeing her didn’t seem weird and destabilizing anymore. In fact, it felt like something to look forward to. I was anticipating the sight of her with her crazy hair and tattoos, wearing a tutu or something equally nutty. Not to mention the cake pops she’d bring, or brownies, or doughnuts, or whatever.

I found myself worrying that she might have given up on me, and regretting being so cold.

When she finally did turn up at last, she was carrying one perfect, exquisite chocolate cupcake from my favorite bakery of all time, twenty minutes across town.

“Are you bribing me?” I asked, as she held it out.

“I am demonstrating,” she said, “that I am not just here to escapetrading sexual favors with Fat Benjamin in exchange for lodging. I am here to do whatever I can to make your day just a little bit better. Starting with cupcakes.”

I looked at the cupcake. I took it.

“I also apologize for ignoring you for three straight years.”

“Fine,” I said, taking a bite and pressing the smooth icing against the roof of my mouth. Then, after swallowing: “You can stay.”

“Really?”

I took another bite and savored it, then spoke louder for more authority. “But if you wind up making things worse for me, you’re out.”

“I won’t,” Kit said.

“For example,” I said, throwing down the challenge. “It’s time for bed now.”

Kit glanced at the clock on my wall. “It’s not even nine o’clock.”

The cupcake was suddenly gone. We were done here.

“Yeah,” I said, like,Duh, like it was past the whole world’s bedtime. “Get your bed ready and let’s hit the sack.”

I watched her unfold the recliner and make it up with a sheet from the cabinet. She’d brought a pillow and blanket of her own—both plaid, which added a camp-out vibe. As I watched her work, her movements and her silhouette so familiar, my eyes kept trying to close on their own. I remember thinking I was so tired I’d never wake up. I remember wondering if she was going to sleep with that crazy nose ring in.

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