Page 23 of Thanksgiving with Three Brothers

“Okay, what happened?”

“She got fired. Showed up at my door crying that I’d taken away everything in her life that mattered to her, and she was going to be homeless, and it was my fault. She had no place to go because she’d never be able to pay her rent doing freelance and she didn’t know what to do. She said she would just go to a shelter.”

“Wow, sheisdramatic.”

“She was overwrought. She was convincing. I was afraid she’d do something to hurt herself.”

“Oh God, you did not let her stay with you, did you? Please say you didn’t.”

“I didn’t. No. I just gave her money, wrote her a check to cover her for a month so she could pay her rent and find a job.”

“That was probably a bad idea.”

“Yeah, I get that now. I felt guilty because all this was because she couldn’t get over me. I’d broken her heart and now got her fired. I felt awful about it.”

“But it’s not your fault that she was obsessed or your fault that she acted like you were on a campaign to destroy her when you were trying to get someone in her life, an authority figure, to check her wild behavior. Did she have, like, a therapist?”

“I tried that too. I said I’d pay for therapy. She said she’d go to couples therapy with me to work out our issues, but I refused because we’re not a couple. I don’t know if I had gone with her maybe things would’ve turned out better.”

“Stop, this is not your fault,” Madison insisted, holding my hand. “You’re trying to survive a terrible situation. Sure, I want her to get help but that doesn’t excuse how she’s invaded your privacy and made you feel hunted.”

“I know that’s true, but it looks like I’m the one with the power in the situation and she’s the one being hurt and mistreated by a man who didn’t want her anymore and tossed her aside.”

“Even if you did toss her aside, which I doubt, that doesn’t mean you deserve to be harassed.”

“She calls and texts in the middle of the night, too. Four in the morning, stuff like that.”

“Sleep deprivation is a form of torture,” she pointed out. “Olivia is waging a full-scale war on you to wear you down. The poor-me brokenhearted routine, the needy, helpless thing, and then playing on your guilt.”

“I’m sure she is. Ethan said I should call the police next time.”

“Next time what?”

“She came to the office today and acted like it was our anniversary. I didn’t call security because I wanted to avoid a scene. It wouldn’t do me any good with the partners if I look like I have a crazy girlfriend whose outbursts I can’t control. I walked her out. In the elevator her coat fell open, and she wasn’t wearing much. This was some weird seduction she had planned, I guess.”

I rubbed my forehead and thought of how I’d recoiled when I saw what she had on, the way I hadn’t even wanted to take her elbow to usher her out. Everything about the whole thing disgusted me.

“Let me guess, it’s making you feel like you’re crazy?” she said. I felt my jaw clench in response, but I nodded. “I could kinda tell. You’re defensive about all of it like you’re under attack. And I think the instinct there is to minimize the problem and try not to admit how bad it is or how much it affects you.”

“It’s why I went to your coffee shop. Because I didn’t want to go back to the Starbucks near my place. Olivia was there just before me a lot of times and I wanted to avoid her if I could. It sounds lame.”

“It sounds sensible,” she insisted. “I hate to repeat myself, but I’m right, so I’m going to underline it here. If I had a creepy ex who stalked me everywhere I went, would you tell me to toughen up and just go get my coffee where I usually went and ignore him? Like he wasn’t a threat and I just needed to quit whining?” she challenged.

“No, of course not,” I said.

“Then having a double standard about this is really sexist of you,” she said.

I wasn’t sure if she was teasing or not. I wanted to protest, to say that it was different for men, but I sat back and resisted the urge to get defensive. I’d been stressed out by it for so long that I was on edge, and I didn’t want to take it out on her.

“Noah,” she said, her voice warmer, softer, “I’m glad you told me. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know. I mean, short of beating her up.” She made me smile and then I hugged her.

“Thank you, Madison,” I said, “For everything. You’re a good listener, and that’s rare.”

“I once went to a therapist who got out his phone and started doing the daily Wordle while I was talking,” she said. “True story. Good listeners, they don’t grow on trees.”

I kissed her cheek and pulled back to look at her.

“If I didn’t have a two o’clock today, I’d be asking if I could stay,” I said, searching her eyes.

---