Chapter 21: The Bedroom Door

Marcy collected Miles at six on Saturday with a duffel bag, a pizza coupon and a face that gave away everything.

"Have a lovely evening," she said to the doorframe. "I'm not saying anything. I'm going."

"Marcy."

"There's a casserole in your oven. I did that. It's the only thing I did."

She hustled my son down the walk, and he looked back over his shoulder and mouthed, "Mortifying."

Abram arrived at seven with a bottle of red and a loaf of bread.

He stood on the porch in a dark sweater, and he looked nervous.

"I didn't know whether to bring flowers."

"Neil brought flowers."

"I know. That's why I brought bread."

I laughed, and took the bottle out of his hand, and stepped back to let him in.

We ate Marcy's casserole at the kitchen table.

It was dry and a little burnt at the edges, and neither of us said so.

He told me how he had fixed the sticky roof door in his first week as manager.

The maintenance crew still hadn't forgiven him.

I told him about the year I tried to learn the cello alongside Miles, and how the teacher asked me, very kindly, to stop.

At some point I realized I had been laughing for twenty minutes.

At some other point I realized he was watching me do it.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing." He turned his wine glass slowly by the stem. "I'm trying not to say something."

"Say it."

"You have a dimple on the left side. It only comes out when you laugh at your own jokes."