At my apartment, he killed the engine and I sat still, waiting for something to happen.

“You okay on the flea front?” he asked.

I nodded.

“You know,” he said, “I only kill what I plan to eat. Or use. Just so you know.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“I don’t waste anything. Like the Indians.”

“They prefer to be called Native Americans, actually.”

He smiled and looked down to his pants. “You’re too smart for me, honey. I think you’re a nice find, though. It would have been nice to be together.”

“We are together,” I said, growing frustrated. I could feel him getting away. “We’re together right now.”

This seemed to make him sad. “Why are you trying so hard to force this?” he asked.

“I don’t know—maybe because sometimes forcing works? Like, maybe if we just forced it for while, just a few weeks, it would end up clicking?” I could tell I was going to regret everything I’d just told him. I could picture my mother shaking her head.

“Listen, I wish it would work, too, but I know it won’t. You know it won’t.”

“But it could. You don’t know. Nobody knows.”

“You can’t squeeze water from a rock.”

“But maybe this isn’t a rock. Maybe it’s a watermelon. We won’t know unless we try.”

“Honey, I’m saying I don’t much feel like trying.”

I did not want to cry, but the tears were there.

He paused, took a deep breath. “You go clean your apartment,” he said. “That stuff in those bombs will kill you.”

I was about to leave without saying anything, but I felt a sudden wave of anger, of injustice. I’d invested a lot in the day—I’d waited on him in the mind-numbing emptiness of his land. I’d sacrificed the life of a bear for him—for us. Sure, he saved one stupid deer for me, but that wasn’t enough. I deserved more. I deserved him. More than anything, I deserved to not go home to an empty apartment filled with poison and memories of a man who did not love me.

“What happened in the woods?” I asked. “Did you kill the bear or not?”

“I didn’t kill any stupid bear.”

“Sure you did,” I said. “Your shirt was covered in blood.”

He pursed his lips and let his hands fall into his lap. He wouldn’t look at me. “It was a dog,” he said. “I thought it was a bear but it was an old Newfoundland I’ve known for years. Belonged to one of my dad’s old buddies who lives up behind the Nine. I knew that dog. His name was Conan. He was a good dog. Smart as hell.”

I put a hand on his arm. “Jackson,” I said, trying to not let on that I was also feeling relieved, that maybe he did like me, that maybe he was just too upset about the dog to admit it. “Don’t beat yourself up,” I said. “Doesn’t stuff like this happen all the time? With hunting?”