“I’m a big guy. I eat a lot. Dad would only make pancakes for us once in a while, but when he did, he’d make a shitload, and it’d be a race to see who could eat more.” He pauses, and I sense a heaviness settling on his shoulders. “Then, after I was married to Lisa, she’d get a kick out of feeding me pancakes. She’d call me to breakfast some random morning, and she’d have the first two batches done, and she’d wait till I was sitting, and then it’d be a race. Could I finish them all before she was finished making the next batch? She’d have two griddles going at once, and I’d be just, god, just gorging myself on them. She thought it was equal parts hysterical and baffling how many I could eat.” He perks up, laughing. “Course, back then, I was going to the gym regularly, so I could afford the extra calories.” He pats his stomach, which I wouldn’t say is anything to be embarrassed about, but is probably not going to win any Instagram best six-pack awards. “I haven’t touched a barbell in years, but haven’t changed my eating habits all that much, least until I got here, that is. So I’m not in the shape I used to be.”

“Well, we all cope in different ways.”

I steal a glance at the rest of him—he is big. It’s not that I hadn’t noticed, before—he’s of a size that you can’t miss. Six-four, with heavy, rounded shoulders, as if the weight of muscle on his shoulders is almost too much for his frame to bear. His arms stretch the sleeves of the flannel. He doesn’t have a noticeable, protruding belly, but generously speaking, it’s clear he likes to eat. His hair is black, longish, with touches of gray at the temples, and streaks of gray shot through his beard near his ears and jawline. He has enormous hands. His fingers nearly meet around the width of his wineglass, which requires both of my hands to accomplish. He has scars on his hands, cuts and nicks in crisscrossing white lines. His knuckles are scarred—he’s leaving out some dark periods of his life, I think. My dad’s knuckles looked like Nathan’s, and I know Dad had a history of getting into scuffles, before they had me.

Nathan catches my eyes on his knuckles, and flexes his fist, shakes it out. “Had some rough times, after I left home. I was angry at life, and thus at everyone. I’d hit walls as much as people, if I couldn’t find anyone to pick a fight with.”

“You seem very much the opposite, now.”