He was right. Since high school, I had been so wrapped up in myself that I dismissed anyone or anything that didn’t in some way profit or amuse me. That night Larry had come to dinner, I could have taken an interest, but I hadn’t because a blind boy didn’t serve my interest. Looking further back, it occurred to me that when Neil was in Little League, I hadn’t gone to a single game. Of course he had asked me, but I figured if my parents put in an appearance, that was sufficient. Not one game. He had been on the team three years, and I didn’t know what position he played. I couldn’t even remember the name of the team. And there was Barry, little Barry, who had written me letters my first two years of college, letters which went unanswered because I was much too busy.

Suddenly, I began to cry. Over Neil and Barry, over being a fool about the plant and a bitch to Frank. And to Gloria. And I kept crying because Frank saw through me before I did, because our relationship was going to require an honesty I wasn’t sure I was capable of.

I thought I had finished crying when I got up and started back to the apartment. But shame was not a familiar feeling to me, and I had no way of fighting the swelling in my throat and the recurring tears. I kept wiping my eyes as I took side streets to avoid the main avenue. I was still wiping them when I reached our building and opened the door at the parking lot entrance. Not since I was twelve had I let anyone see me cry. All right, so he would see me cry; wasn’t that something lovers did in front of each other? I would apologize, slip into his arms, and the whole silly mess would be over. I started up the stairs.

I was halfway up when I saw her coming down. The grocery girl. Her eyes were still red and moist from crying. A cold, dull tremor passed through me as the look of recognition was exchanged. She ran down the rest of the way and out the door.

I didn’t ring. I opened the door with my key.

He was lying there on one of the cushions, and he jumped up before I got the door closed. His eyes were wild and fearful, but he said nothing. We stood staring at each other.

“Where . . . did you go?” he said at last. Voice shaky. Face flushed. My eyes slid around the room for evidence.

“I just walked. To the campus.” I could hear the chill in my voice.

“Do you—do you feel better now?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, letting my eyes drill into his. I went into the kitchen and poured a double shot of bourbon. When I turned around he was standing in the doorway, looking imploringly at me. I sensed he wanted to come closer but wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.