Chapter 4: Three Rules

I gave Sadie three rules in the rain, under the awning of a climbing gym.

My roommate stood ten feet away, pretending to read a flyer.

"You can stay in Seattle," I said. "I can't stop you. It's a city."

"Wyatt..."

"Rule one. You don't touch me."

She looked at her own hand, still on her wrist, and put it in her jacket pocket.

"Rule two. You don't say the word lake. Not the lake, not the pier, not that day."

Her face went still.

"Why?" she said.

"Because it's mine. I left it behind, and I don't want it in my mouth or yours."

She nodded slowly.

"Rule three. No promises. Not one. Not 'I'll be there,' not 'I'll wait,' not 'I swear.'"

"Why that one?" she said, and her voice cracked a little on it.

"Because I've heard them all. I know what they weigh."

Rain ran off the awning between us in a thin line.

I wanted to say something kind and I could not find it anywhere.

"Do you understand?" I said.

"Yes."

"You don't get to ask me to forgive you. I'm not telling you I will."

"I'm not asking." She wiped her face with her sleeve. "I'm asking for the rules. Just for the rules, so I can do it right."

"Do what right?"

"Be here," she said. "Where you're allowed to see me."

That was a promise, or close to one, and I let it go.

I was tired and my hands were still shaking from the wall.

"Where are you staying?" I said, before I could stop it.

"The man in your building says there's a room over the bakery on Pine. A hundred and ninety a week. I have two hundred and twelve dollars."

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