It was that ancient, nasty confidence. I could see how he convinced people to sleep with him. I could also see him getting stabbed between the ribs.

When I pulled up to the house, Kiki bolted from the bushes across the street and met the car on her hind legs, front paws scrabbling the air in greeting.

“What the hell, Keek?” I said. “Can you jump the fence now?”

I walked her to the backyard and saw that the gate was unlatched and hanging open. I tried to work up indignation at the imagined dog-hating passerby who had done this, but fell short. It was on me. I needed to do better.

I brought Kiki inside and poured myself some bourbon. Then I put a frozen pizza in the oven, the kind with vegetables on it, for health. I considered doing something overtly thoughtful for Julia, like buying groceries or cleaning the bathtub, but I decided it was too risky. Once, during a tough month for her, I got up at five in the morning to make pancakes. In my half-awake stupor, I managed to slice my hand open on a nail sticking out of the cabinet. She ended up at the hospital half an hour before her shift and got me sewn up by one of her incompetent classmates. I’d steered clear of caring gestures since.

An hour later, as I was finishing the pizza, I heard Kiki barking like a maniac, which meant that Julia was home.

“It’s just Mama,” I said, but she didn’t quiet down until Julia came through the door, and then jumped up and left muddy paw prints on her scrubs.

Julia took out her earbuds and gave me a kiss.

“You know who’s really good?” she said. “DMX. I mean, obviously. But I just listened to ‘Up in Here’ like five times on the way home.”

“Because you’re so angry?” I said.

“I’m better now,” Julia said. “Gonna go change, and then we’ll talk about this … situation.”

She emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later wearing a WTJU T-shirt and glasses. She made a pot of tea while I told her about the day.

“I know you just want me to be cool or whatever and say yes, like I’m your mother.”

“How is that like my mother?”

“Well, because you’re being the kid who wants a puppy, and I’m being the adult who makes the rules.”

“It’s not a puppy, though,” I said. “It’s an old dog that probably isn’t going to live much longer.”

“Great. I can’t wait to come home to your dead dog.”

“Our dead dog,” I said.

The teakettle whistled and she poured herself a cup. I retaliated by pouring more bourbon into my half-full drink.

“Look, I’m willing to go see it. Which, by the way, you haven’t done yet. What if it’s awful? What if it’s disgusting?”