Page 91 of The Quiet Tenant

“You?” I ask.

“Same,” he says. “Work has been busy. Lots to do at home, too.”

A silence.

“I’m so sorry I never wrote back,” he says.

He’s looking into my eyes, his forehead creased, his neck bare against the biting cold, an earnestness that pierces my heart. Something deflates inside my chest. I came prepared for battle, and he just wrestled the knife out of my hand.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, but he shakes his head.

“No. It’s not. You were—you are—perfect. It’s just…There’s a lot going on, you know? At home, and—”

Oh my God.

I want to wrap him in my arms. I want to tell himhe’s perfect and I’m an idiot. I want to tell him I have no idea what it feels like, losing your person, watching their body disappear into the ground. I want to tell him it’s okay. This is what I want more than anything: for him to know it will all be okay.

“I understand,” I say. “I mean, I don’t. But it’s fine. Really.”

He gives me a shy smile. “I hope we can still…I hope I can do better. In the future.”

I nod. What does “better” mean? Does it mean friendship? Texting? Kissing? Sex?

His scarf scratches my chin. I go to adjust it, and in doing so, unearth a patch of bare skin between two folds of wool. He reaches for my neck.

“You’re wearing it.”

His fingers brush against my throat, drop down to the necklace he gave me.

“Of course I’m wearing it,” I tell him. “I—”

I can’t say it, can’t sayI love it,because it’s too close, way toodangerously close toI love you,and I am not going anywhere near that mess.

“It’s so beautiful,” I say instead.

He nods vaguely. His eyes are on my neck, his thumb on the pendant. His other fingers slip under the scarf and settle around the curve of my shoulder.

I don’t know what’s going on. What I know is his fingers are on me and they are warm and I am cold and it feels good, I think, good and a little bit weird, to be touched like this after weeks of missing him. It feels like us finding each other again. A reminder that we know each other. That we can talk.

“I have a confession,” I tell him. His hand falls. His gaze bounces from my collarbones to my face. “I thought…I thought I smelled smoke the other day. In your house.” He cocks his head. “I let myself in, just to check everything was okay, and—”

“You went inside?”

My face prickles. “I…I didn’t mean to intrude. I just wanted to make sure nothing was burning.” A memory, a sentence uttered by thetown real estate agent one evening at the bar: “That’s the thing with those beautiful wooden houses. They look great, but they disappear like that.”

I snap my fingers on thethat.He fiddles with the zipper on his coat pocket, snippy littlezip-zip-zips,like he’s stressed or—worse—annoyed.

“Everything was fine,” I say. I laugh, a dig at my past self’s paranoia. “All quiet on the Western Front.”

Okay, stop talking now.

“Well, that’s good to know,” he says, and nudges the duffel with the tip of his boot. In passing, a question: “Who let you in? My daughter?”

A new wave of shame crashes into me. “No one was coming to the door. And the smell was just really strong.” I can hear the derailment in my voice, the blatant lie I can’t quite pull off. “I had to use your spare key.”

That’s it. He’s going to call the cops, request a restraining order. But if anything, he sounds amused. “You found it, huh? Guess I should think of a better hiding spot.”

I hear myself giggle. “Under the plant. Very cunning. Must have taken me at least…twenty seconds to find it.”

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