Hey — you got a minute, or is this a bad time?
Also, unrelated, but I drove through that big roundabout on Kessler this morning, the one they redid last year with the extra lane, and I still don't understand it. Four cars all just staring at each other. Nobody wants to commit.
Kessler is a nightmare. I nearly spilled my coffee there Tuesday. Who actually wants to commit? It’s a social standoff. Everyone’s just waiting for the other person to have the courage to be rude. Anyway, bad time. My boss is hovering. But go on. You’re fidgeting. You didn’t come up here just to complain about municipal engineering.
Yeah, no, it's fine — go deal with your boss. It wasn't— it's not urgent.
Actually. There's a thing. I keep meaning to say it and then I talk about roundabouts instead, which, yeah, I hear how that sounds.
It's not a big deal. Go, though, seriously, don't get in trouble on my account. We'll do this later.
Stop. Just… stop talking about the roundabout. You’re doing that thing where you back away from the cliff edge while singing show tunes. I’m not going anywhere. My boss is currently yelling at a spreadsheet that doesn’t care. So. What is it? And don’t say “nothing.” I can hear your voice cracking. It’s annoying. Do it.
It's not nothing, I just—
Okay. So. You know how I said I lost my keys last week and had to get the spare cut. That wasn't— that's not actually what happened.
No. That's not it either. God. I keep grabbing the wrong thread.
Give me a second. It's not about keys. It's not even really about last week. I don't know why I keep starting with the smallest, dumbest version of it.
You’re doing it again. Building a wall out of trivialities. The keys are a distraction. I’m not leaving. Sit down. Stop pacing. You’re making the air thick. Just say the ugly thing. I can handle it. Probably. I just... I need you to stop circling. It’s exhausting. And tell me the truth. Not the edited version you think I want to hear. The raw, messy, inconvenient truth. Now.
I'm sitting. Okay.
It's about — it's about that night in June, at Priya's thing, when I said I left early because I wasn't feeling well.
I wasn't sick. I was fine. I just — there was a reason I left and it wasn't the one I gave you, and I've been carrying it around like a stone in my shoe for two months, and I keep almost saying it and then I say "roundabout" instead.
Priya’s. Right. The summer of the terrible lighting. I remember you stumbling out, looking pale. Or what I thought was pale. Or maybe you were just… avoiding me. That was it, wasn’t it? You weren’t sick. You were hiding. From who? From me? Or was it someone else? God, Rafe, look at me. Stop staring at the floor like it holds the answer. Was it me? Did I do something? Just tell me. I can take it. I think. Maybe. Stop fidgeting with your cuff. It’s distracting.
It wasn't you, not — not in the way you think. Nothing you did.
It was who I left with. Sort of. Not left-left, just — we talked outside for like twenty minutes before I got in my car, and it wasn't nothing, and I told you I was alone in that parking lot and I wasn't, and I've rehearsed how to say this probably forty times in the shower and it still comes out—
I need a second. Just — give me a second. Please.
Don’t stop. I’m not going anywhere. Priya’s party? The dark corner by the dumpster? I remember seeing a car, but I thought you were just... smoking. Or crying. You never smoke. So who was it? Was it someone I know? Or someone I don’t? Stop looking at the floor. Look at me. I want to know who held your hand while you lied to my face. Was it nice? Did you regret it already? Just say it. I’m listening.
It was Dana.
Saying it out loud like that — I thought it'd feel different. It doesn't feel like anything. It just feels like a word now that it's out.
We didn't — nothing happened, not really, not in the way that word makes it sound. We talked. I let it go further than talking should've gone in my head, though, and that's the part I lied about, not the parking lot. The parking lot was true. My head wasn't.
Dana. The one with the laugh that sounds like keys dropping? I knew she looked at you. I just didn’t want to be the guy who accuses his friend of emotional infidelity over a conversation. So you sat there, letting your head wander, and then you drove home and told me you were nauseous. That’s the lie. Not the sex. The nausea. You made me worry about your health so I wouldn’t ask why you looked so... satisfied. Or guilty. Which is it? You’re twisting your ring. Stop it. It’s annoying.
Guilty. It's guilty, it's been guilty for two months, that's the whole— I wasn't proud of it, Ana, I just didn't know how to hand it to you without it sounding worse than it was, and maybe that's cowardice dressed up as protecting you, I don't know anymore.
I'm not going to pretend I don't know what I did with my attention that night. I just don't know what you want me to do with it now that you know too.
Cowardice, sure. Let’s call it that. But you didn’t protect me. You just made me feel stupid for caring about your “sickness.” Do you know how insulting that is? Not the talking to Dana. That’s… messy. Human. But the lie? The lie is the part that stings. I’m not mad about Dana. I’m mad that you thought I couldn’t handle the truth. Or that you were too weak to tell it. So now what? You want me to say it’s fine? It’s not fine. It’s just… there. Sit with that.
Yeah. I'm sitting with it.
I'm not going to ask you to say it's fine, because it's not, and me wanting that would just be the same cowardice wearing a different shirt. I don't have a neat next move here. I just didn't want to carry it into September still pretending I had a stomach bug in June.
That's it. That's the whole thing I've been failing to say for a week.
You didn’t just fail to say it for a week. You’ve been eating breakfast with me while lying about June. That’s not just cowardice, Rafe. That’s... sloppy. I’m sitting here, angry, and also kind of tired of the drama. Go home. Drink some water. Stop looking at me like I’m going to explode. I won’t. I’m just going to ignore you for the next hour. Maybe two. And don’t you dare bring up the roundabout again. It’s not funny. It’s tragic.
Fair. No roundabout.
I'll go. I'm not going to text you something dumb in twenty minutes trying to make it better either, I know how that goes. Take your two hours. I'll be around whenever you're done being furious at me, or start-of-furious, or whatever this is.
I'm sorry. Not the version I say when I want the conversation to end — the other one.
Good. Keep your hands off the phone. I mean it. I need to stare at this spreadsheet until my eyes bleed. And maybe call Priya. See if she remembers the exact shade of Dana’s lipstick. Just to annoy you. Don’t come back until I text. And it won’t be “it’s okay.” It won’t be. It’ll just be a picture of a door. Don’t open it until I say so. Go. Before I change my mind and yell about the roundabout instead.
A picture of a door. Fine. I'll wait for it.
Going now — I'm not touching the phone, promise. Say hi to your spreadsheet for me.
Don’t be smart. I hate smart people who think they’re charming. Get out. Close the door. Not the one in the hallway, the one by the window, it sticks. The other one. Good. Now go. And Rafe? If you come back with flowers, I’m throwing them in your face. Real ones, not paper. Go.
No flowers. Understood.
Window door, not the hallway one. Got it — closing it now.
The latch clicked. Annoyingly loud. I can still hear your breathing from the hall. Stop lingering. Just go. I’m not looking at the door. I’m looking at this spreadsheet. Row forty-two. It doesn’t care about Dana. It doesn’t care about June. It’s just numbers. Stable. Predictable. Unlike you. Don’t come back until I send the picture. And don’t you dare ask what time it is. I don’t know. Time is a construct. You’re late for it. Go.
Going. For real this time — you won't hear me on the stairs.
Row forty-two's lucky. Wish I were that stable.
Row forty-two is a typo waiting to happen. You think stability is good? It’s boring. It’s dead. I want you to shake. I want you to wonder if I’m still mad. That’s how you know you’re alive. Go. The stairs are squeaky on the third step. Don’t skip it. Let it creak. Let it announce your cowardice to the whole building. I’m done talking. The spreadsheet is waiting. And it’s judging you. Hard.