“Everybody just fucks off right when I need them most. I always end up dealing with everything on my own.” My voice, my face are contorting to accommodate my mess of tears.

“Want me to stay with you tonight?”

“No.”

I catch myself imagining what Dave would do in response to such self-pity. Leap from the couch, throw his hands in the air, make a smart, snide comment about my self-centredness, and slam the door on the way out. Then he’d show up an hour later with a dozen red roses, chocolate brioche, and a bottle of acai berry juice pressed by the feet of Trinidadian Hindu yogis, and a million hollow words to validate my pity party.

Willy Gimp just hauls in a silent, steady breath and hugs me close, until I stop sobbing and ranting about how awful everything and everyone in my life has always been. When I fall into a drained silence, he quietly struggles to hoist himself off the couch because his bad leg is asleep and his bad arm has sunk too deep in the cushion to give him any decent traction. He drops his Nirvana hat on the floor six times while his unreliable limbs wrestle with his puffy coat. He kisses me on the forehead, shuffles to the door, and before closing it behind him with the utmost care, he looks back at me with his soft, spent wonder of a smile.

“Want to know what I remember most about your mother? Her ‘pity party’ song. She’d come into the garage, and the two of us would get to chatting. The second I’d start bitching about something, she’d grab my bad hand, give it a squeeze and then” — his voice drops to a gravelly sing-song — “‘Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me. Guess I’ll eat some worms. Big fat slimy ones, gross and greasy grimy ones, chubby little grubby little worms.’ Made me roar every time.”

I sit there sniffling and snotting into the tightly clutched corner of my blanket.

“If I was you, I’d eat some of Flossie Baker’s ham and a few of them squares instead. There’s more rock-solid love for you here than you think, Crow. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Whatever,” I sulk.

He blows me a kiss and a few extra shiny bubbles.

As his truck rumbles off, my fingers twitch and my heart inches up into my throat as I touch the little call back button on the screen of my phone. I’m staring at the digits of Dave’s number as they pop up on the screen, when, without so much as a knock, Peggy barrels through the door with Mossy in tow. My shaky finger taps the end call button just before it starts to ring.

“Here,” Peg says, “Mossy’s gonna stay with you tonight.”

“Look, I can —”

“Ain’t got time to argue. Charlotte’s back to the hospital, and the baby’s asleep in the car. Don’t be so contrary all your life, take a day off.”