“Love you too.”

For the next five hours I toss and turn, sleepless and tortured, waiting for a sign, for a clue, for a breath from Joe. Something to tell me what he is thinking, feeling.

Like all my prayers, this, too, remains unanswered.

THIRTEEN

THIRTEEN

Dawn breaks through the gray Massachusetts fog at about quarter past seven in the morning, washing Dom’s childhood room in cool hues of blue and pink. The moon slinks behind naked winter trees. I’ve been watching it retreating for long minutes through the window. Knowing sleep is not on the menu, I shove my feet into Dom’s slippers and tiptoe to the bay window overlooking the Graveses’ garden.

It’s largely pebbled, with flowerpots and wooden vegetable beds. There’s one round wrought-iron table by the fence, accompanied by two chairs, and next to it stands Joe, smoking a cigarette.

I gasp a little at the sight of him. The dark circles under his eyes tell me he hasn’t slept either. It makes me feel validated. Like I’m not overreacting to what’s happening here. As if sensing my eyes on him, Joe lifts his gaze and meets my stare head-on, billowing a thick ribbon of smoke sideways. I swallow, waiting for his next move.

He doesn’t move.

He is daring me. I can see it in his eyes.

What are you going to do about our little problem, Ever?

One of us needs to move the next piece on the chessboard. And since it was me who disappeared on him, I might as well bite the bullet. Gingerly, I make my way out of Dom’s room and to the backyard.

A wave of frost hits my face as I slide the backyard door open. I stand at a safe distance from him, like he could bite me. Joe opens his soft pack of cigarettes, tilting it in my direction.

I shake my head. “I don’t smoke.”

And you know that, I don’t add.

He shrugs, taking a drag of his cigarette as he stares at the last traces of the moon before it evaporates behind the trees.

“So. Seph, huh?” I ask. This is not the strongest way to start clearing the air, but I’m not known for my eloquence in times of crisis.

“My family insists on shortening Joseph to Seph.” He is matter of fact. Not too friendly, but not short with me.

“That’s weird.”

“Blame my granddad. This was his nickname. I’m Joe to everyone else. What’s your excuse?” He refers to my new nickname.

“I’m Ever to everyone, but I’m guessing when Dom mentioned me, he said my name was Lynne.”

“You’re guessing correctly,” Joe says, still looking at the spot beyond the pine trees. I decide to call him Joe. I know what it feels like to be called by a name you’re not particularly fond of.