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“Well,” Henry says, more to the dog than Martina, “we knew that.” He lowers into a squat, dropping his bag to take Custard’s face in both hands. Custard drags his tongue over Henry’s cheek and he laughs. “Any more vomiting?”

“Not so much since the last time,” Martina says. “Maybe we do the injections out here, in the shade? He just loves to be outside in the grass.”

“Sure.” Henry stands, reaching for his bag, and motions to the shady spot where Martina’s chair is set up. “How’s he tolerating the new oral medication?”

“Seems okay,” Martina says, and as Custard lumbers after Henry she puts a hand on my elbow. “Hi, honey.”

“Hi.” I smile at her, completely disoriented by this moment—the news that Custard’s sick, but even more the way Henry has changed around him. It’sme, apparently, that sets Henry on edge. My plans, my house, my mess.

“What were you two chatting about over there?” Martina asks. She’s never been especially nosy, but we’re really each other’s only neighbors—we keep tabs. “I haven’t seen Henry at the house in years. You’re not moving out, are you?”

“Oh, no,” I say. I feel very warm—from the sun, or from Henry, or from this question. “Nate is, though.”

From the grass, legs crossed in front of him and Custard sprawled across his lap, Henry glances up.

“We broke up,” I tell Martina. “And I’m going to be running the house as a bed-and-breakfast.”

“Oh,no,” Martina echoes, her fingers clenching around my arm. “I’m so sorry. Nate was always…” She hesitates, and Henry digs around in his bag. His neck is still very, very pink. “Well, I know you were together a long time.”

I swallow, pasting on a smile. “We were. But it’s all right, thank you.”

“Bed-and-breakfast?” She glances at Henry. “It’s not going to be loud, honey, is it?”

“No,” Henry says, before I can reply. He doesn’t look at us; he’s snapping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. It’s jarring: his old jeans, his T-shirt, the dog gazing up at him as he uncaps a needle and sinks it into a vial of clear liquid. “I was just here dropping off the regulations, and there are strict rules about noise. Don’t worry, Martina.”

His eyes flick to mine, like he’s checking this with me. I nod, and he turns away to part the fur between Custard’s shoulder blades.

“What’s going on with Custard?” I ask, desperate for a change of subject. Henry’s ducked over him, and I look away when I realize he’s giving him the injectionright now. I’ve never been good with shots.

“He’s got lymphoma,” Martina says, looking down at him. I follow her gaze without even thinking, but the injection’s over with—Henry’s rubbing Custard’s ears, murmuring to him in a low voice.Easy, now. Good boy.Custard’s tongue lolls out of his mouth as he blinks up at Henry like he’s hanging on his every word. “He’s nine, now, you know. But we aren’t ready to say goodbye.”

“And you don’t have to,” Henry says. He doesn’t look at us;he’s taken the gloves off and his long fingers are running through Custard’s fur—a steady rhythm along his rib cage. Henry smiles up at Martina. “Not so long as we’re keeping him feeling good.”

“I know,” Martina says, swatting at him. Henry looks back down at the dog and I know—Iknow—that I’m staring at him, but I can’t make myself stop. Whoisthis person? The tense set of his shoulders, that worried line between his brows—all of it’s gone. It’s like a magic trick: this isn’t the same Henry who stood, trapped and stiff, in my kitchen a few minutes ago. The wind moves through his hair and he smiles down at Custard, the muscles shifting in his forearm as he rubs his belly. When he murmurs, “Good boy,” it feels like a secret between the two of them.

“Henry comes by to give him treatments because it’s so hard for us to lift him into the car these days.” Martina waves a hand at me. “Don’t get old, honey, it’s terrible.”

I force a laugh, though nothing about this feels funny. Custard can’t be sick. I can’t lose the house. Henry can’t stand me. I don’t want this many things to change—not all at once.

“I’ve got to go,” I say too abruptly. I’m already stepping backward when Henry looks up, the ghost of a smile falling from his face. The sun’s in his eyes, and he squints at me—like he can’t quite see me; like there’s something blurred and unspoken between us. “I hope Custard feels better.”

“Thanks, honey.” Martina brushes her hand over my arm one more time as I turn away.

“Bye,” I say. My voice is loud; too loud, to my own ears. “Bye, Henry.”

I don’t look back as he responds. I don’t let myself thinktwice about it when a sudden breeze carries his reply, “I’ll be seeing you,” after me through the summer air.

I’ve spent twenty minutes tryingto get the nameplate straight. I have one stub of a pencil in this entire house and a pocket-size level that I got for free in a Lowe’s-sponsored swag bag at a summer food festival in college. Plus, I’m crying. The really self-indulgent kind, snot running onto my lips and periodic wails bouncing down the upstairs hallway.

I let out a hiccup and collapse onto my ass on the antique wood floor. Henry’s lack of enthusiasm this afternoon—coupled with Custard’s diagnosis—shook something loose inside of me. Whatever resolve I’ve built since the breakup has been knocked directly out of place. It’s not that I expected warmth from Henry, exactly. But I’m still so raw from Nate’s betrayal that any semblance of rejection—anything evenbreathingon the same plane as rejection—feels like a barbed knife directly through my rib cage. And the tense, strained way Henry moved through my house felt personal. Especially after seeing him with Custard and Martina—that gentle, smiling stranger he turned into once he got away from me.

You’re alone, the whole exchange reminded me.The world is all strangers who owe you nothing. You failed your exam and you’ll fail at this, too.

I stare at the level in my palm through blurry eyes.Let’s get one thing straight!is emblazoned across it. The nameplate I’ve been trying to install, beautiful brass with a little tree and the wordsThe Pine Room, hangs sideways from one screw. It’ll be a miracle if I get one thing straight today, or maybe ever. I wishI had someone here to help me. I wish I didn’t have to do any of this at all. I wish—

My phone starts to ring from the floor beside me, a jaunty jingle that feels offensive given the circumstances. Mei takes up the entire screen, a photo of her at seven years old making a heinous little face while poised over a soccer ball. It’s framed in the entryway at her parents’ house in Pasadena; I took a picture of it when I spent Thanksgiving with them during our junior year of college.

“Hey,” I say wetly, lifting the phone to my ear. Sobs echo through the line, and it takes a few full heartbeats for me to realize they aren’t my own.