No Return Address

Grant's email arrived the next morning while Noah was making coffee.

He apologized for entering without permission. He asked for one conversation. There was something about his father he thought I should know.

I read it twice.

Then I put my phone facedown.

Noah set a mug beside me. He didn't ask what was on the screen.

That almost made the decision harder.

"He wants to talk," I said.

Noah's hand paused on the coffee pot.

"Do you want to?"

"I want to stop having conversations with him in my head. This might help."

He nodded slowly.

"Then talk to him."

"You make that sound very simple."

"It doesn't feel simple. But you shouldn't have to wonder what he was going to say."

He sounded steady. Only the small crease between his eyebrows betrayed him.

I caught his hand before he could move away and kissed his knuckles.

"I'm not deciding between you."

His eyes met mine.

"I know," he said, and then, more honestly, "It's good to hear it."

I arranged a short visit at noon. I preferred my own home, with a time limit and the option of opening the door, to some public table where I might have to keep my voice down for the sake of strangers.

Noah had a seminar. Before he left, he put lunch in the refrigerator and asked me to text afterward.

"So you know I'm alive?"

"So I know whether to bring dessert."

"Bring dessert regardless. I refuse to make that contingent on my suffering."

At noon, Grant rang the bell.

I appreciated the improvement without congratulating him on it.

He looked healthier. His hair was cut, the dressing gone. There was a faint yellow bruise along his cheekbone and a weariness I recognized from bad weeks at work.

I let him in and pointed toward the kitchen table.

"I've got half an hour. Would you like water?"

He nodded.

I put a glass in front of him and sat with my own lunch.

He glanced at the covered portion beside the stove.

"Did he make that?"

"Yes. Tell me what you needed to say."

Grant folded his hands.

"My father admitted the chest pains weren't real. He'd had some discomfort earlier in the week, but that morning he exaggerated it deliberately. The tests didn't find what he claimed was happening. He let my mother and me think he was in danger because he wanted me to end things with you."

I put my fork down.

For a moment, all I could think was that this family needed a hobby with fewer hospital forms.

"I'm sorry," I said. "That was a cruel thing for him to do."

Grant looked up quickly, hope moving across his face.

"It was. I didn't know until yesterday. Owen pushed him, and he finally admitted it. I've told them I'm not hiding anymore. I've told them I won't let them decide who I love."

I nodded.

"I'm glad. You should be able to live your own life."

"I'd like that life to include you."

There it was, said plainly at last.

Months ago, I would have built an entire future out of that sentence.

Now I noticed the toast crumb on the table beside my plate, where Noah had leaned in to kiss me before leaving.

"No," I said.

Grant stared at me.

"I understand what I did."

"I believe you're beginning to. That doesn't undo it."

"I can make it right."

"You can do better with the next person. You can't make me want to be that person."

He pushed the glass away, then pulled it back into line with the table edge.

"Three years, Miles. You can't tell me none of it mattered."

"It mattered too much. That's why it took me so long to leave."

My voice shook on the last word. I let it.

"Every time I tried to pull away, you gave me just enough to stay. I don't think you planned it like a strategy. I think you liked knowing I would be there, and you didn't think very hard about what waiting did to me."

He looked at the table.

"I did love you," I said. "I loved the man who drove me to my mother's apartment and waited downstairs until I told him she was okay. I loved how you looked after people at work. I kept thinking that if you could be so certain everywhere else, eventually you'd be certain about me."

His eyes shone.

"I am certain now."

I swallowed the ache in my throat.

"You weren't when it mattered to me."

For a while, the only sound was the refrigerator humming.

Then he said, "What if your new relationship gets difficult? He's young. He depends on you. You can't know what he'll want when that changes."

"No. I can't."

Grant looked at me as if I had accidentally agreed with him.

"I can't guarantee we won't hurt each other," I continued. "I know he asks me questions and waits for my answer. I know he doesn't make me ashamed of wanting him. That's enough to begin with."

"He could just be grateful."

"You don't know him."

The sharpness in my own voice surprised me.

I stood and collected my plate.

"His family might not accept it either," Grant said.

I turned back.

"Your family hurt you. I'm sorry they did. But you don't get to borrow someone else's family as a reason I should be afraid to leave you."

His face changed.

Slowly, he nodded.

"You're right. That was unfair."

I wished he'd been capable of that sentence before I stopped needing it.

At the door, he stood with his hand on the frame.

"You really aren't coming back."

"No."

He took a breath and looked at me properly, without reaching, asking, or arranging an excuse.

"I'm sorry, Miles. You deserved better from me."

"Thank you for saying it."

Then he left.

I closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. I wasn't triumphant. I wasn't devastated. I felt the tiredness of finally putting something heavy down.

My phone buzzed.

Noah: I have a break. Are you okay?

Me: Yes. We talked. It's finished.

Noah: Would you like chocolate cake or lemon bars?

Me: You insult me with this false choice.

Noah: Both. Understood.

I laughed, then wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand.

When he came home, he put the bakery bag down and opened his arms without a word.

I walked into them.

He held me until I stepped back. Then he kissed my forehead and asked if I had eaten.

"I did," I said. "For the record, your boyfriend-interview scores remain alarmingly high."

He smiled, but something flickered in his expression at the word interview.

I noticed it.

Then I made a joke about the cake and let the moment pass, which was easier than asking why I still wouldn't give him the job.