There was also the problem of Sally’s arrival—not in and of itself an issue, since he liked Sally and also welcomed a break from the ongoing talk about the orthopedics department’s failures. But when she bustled through the front door—using a key, Will noticed, signaling him to the state of this reconciliation—she was holding a big, blue plastic cat carrier. When she set it down in the entryway and opened the door, Quincy and Francis ran to Will like they remembered him, and he coped with an outrageous longing for the nights he spent alone with them in Donny’s apartment, Nora only two floors above instead of all the way across the country. When they left him to rub themselves across Gerald’s shins, meowing until he gave them treats from a package he had on his counter, Will thought seriously about hiding in the bathroom to google (on his telephone) whether there were any hypoallergenic cats in existence. The hairless kind, maybe? Would Nora like one of those? Would that fix what he’d done, what he still couldn’t do?

And then there was the problem of watching Gerald and Sally this way, two people he’d known separately who had never really made sense in his mind as being together. Their reconciliation clearly wasn’t settled yet, and it was somehow both amusing and stressful to watch them try for it, like they were doing a dance they hadn’t quite learned all the steps to. In the small kitchen, a sweating glass of iced tea in his hand, Will could see Sally struggle not to interfere with what Gerald was doing with his roast chicken; at the table, Will could hear the way Gerald worked to acknowledge all the things Sally said, even the digressions—something about a sequined headband in the middle of a story about her book club, something about ankle weights while she talked about the city council campaign she was volunteering for. It was awkward and gentle and fascinating, and that was because, Will realized, he had never seen anything like it. His own parents’ togetherness had always seemed effortless, assumed. A default state of being that had been disconcerting in its own way.

Eventually, though, things eased: Will was hungrier than he’d thought, and Quincy and Francis sat on a chair next to him and watched food go from his plate to the mouth like they were at a tennis match. Once he was used to it, Gerald and Sally’s conversation became much like Gerald’s workday lectures and complaints—background noise that was welcome, at least, for the way it drowned out Will’s own thoughts.

But as soon as he set his fork and knife across his plate, Sally looked straight across the table at him and said, “Well, I guess Gerry isn’t going to bring it up.”

Who’s Gerry? Will thought.