The Boy and the Barefoot Husband

"It sounds like somebody murdering a kettle," I explained.

Adrian blinked slowly.

"Fascinating. Go tell your friends."

I closed the door for the last time and went downstairs. If the house contained a restless spirit, it would have to put up with my husband alone for a few hours.

A tall young man leaned against Sophie's car. He wore a black jacket and a small stud in his left ear. When he saw me, a smile transformed his whole face.

"Jamie. Finally."

He took my bag before I could protest and opened the passenger door.

Sophie waved from behind the wheel.

"This is Elliot. My cousin. He moved back to Boston last semester. He's at Berklee."

"Nice to meet you."

His smile faltered.

"You don't remember me?"

I tilted my head, searching for something familiar. Pale eyes. Faint dimples. A carefully arranged, delicate confidence that didn't help me at all.

"Should I?"

Sophie groaned.

"Little Elliot, Jamie. The one who followed you around at school."

Oh.

The memory arrived with a blue backpack, a round-cheeked boy, and a perpetually scraped knee.

"Oh my God. You grew."

"It was always a possibility."

I laughed, surprised. The boy I remembered had barely spoken.

At the restaurant, Elliot sat across from me. He asked about my job, remembered I didn't like mushrooms, and moved a serving dish before I needed to ask.

He was attentive. He also seemed prepared to keep looking at me until I caught fire.

Sophie interrupted by placing the breadbasket between us.

"He has a recital next month. Ask about it and you'll get the entire program."

"It's just a student recital," Elliot corrected.

"So there's still time for us to escape?" I asked.

He smiled.

"You've never liked classical music?"

"I used to. Then my dance teacher used the same piece for warm-ups for two years. Now my knees bend automatically when I hear it."

Dinner was good. I caught up with old friends, heard about bosses who sounded worse than mine, and managed to go twenty minutes without thinking about Adrian.

Afterward, someone suggested a bar where we'd reserved a private room. Elliot came too. At twenty-one, he produced his ID for the bouncer with such readiness that Sophie laughed.

Inside, a former classmate seized the karaoke microphone. On her first note, Elliot leaned toward me.

"Could you show me where the terrace is? I need some air."

I looked at the tiny stage.

"So do I."

Outside, the breeze lifted my hair. I leaned against the railing and breathed in the cool air, pleased I'd brought a jacket that didn't resemble camping equipment.

Elliot stood close beside me.

"I thought you'd recognize me."

"You used to be smaller than your backpack. Give me some credit."

He laughed, then lowered his eyes.

"I was taking medication that made me puffy. It was a difficult time."

The joke died in my mouth.

"Are you doing okay now?"

"Yes."

We were quiet for a moment. I remembered the older boys who used to wait for him down a side street and take his lunch money. I'd seen it happen once and made such a scene that a teacher had come running across the parking lot.

Afterward, I'd told Elliot to wait for me at dismissal.

"I should've found an adult sooner," I said. "I don't know why I thought arguing with three guys was a plan."

"You stayed. Nobody else stayed."

He reached toward my face.

I ducked on instinct, bending backward with a speed I owed entirely to my old dance teachers.

Elliot's hand hung in the air.

"Your hair was in your eyes. Sorry."

"Oh. Thanks. I've got it."

I tucked the strand behind my ear.

He rubbed his hands together, embarrassed.

"You think I'm weird."

"I think we haven't seen each other in years. It's different."

Elliot started talking about school. The first time I'd walked him home. The crooked bandage I'd stuck to his knee. The birthday keychain he still had.

His eyes filled with tears.

I searched my pockets for a tissue and found a receipt and an unwrapped mint.

Neither would be my finest contribution.

"I'll get you a napkin," I said.

He stood when I did.

"Wait. I'm a little dizzy."

I caught his shoulder to steady him.

A boot flew across the terrace.

It hit Elliot in the back with a solid thud.

I looked at the boot. Then at the man standing near the door.

Adrian was in the shadows, his hair disheveled, his mouth curved into a smile that promised nothing pleasant.

One foot was shod.

The other rested on the cold stone in a sock.

"Now I see why you didn't need me to come," he said.

Elliot straightened beneath my hand.

"Did you throw a shoe at him?" I asked.

"He was falling. I revived him."

"You could have used words."

"I considered the options."

I took my hand from Elliot's shoulder. Adrian followed the movement with such attention that I felt guilty about something I hadn't done.

Elliot touched his back, looked at him, and asked gently, "Jamie, is this your uncle?"

Adrian's smile vanished.

He adjusted his cuff, took a step forward, and stopped when his sock met the stone.

He looked down at his foot.

There was a magnificent silence.

Then my husband lifted his chin.

"Both of you. Turn around."