I try to recover, throwing out words as fast as I can. Certainly more than the situation needs. “Not like that,” I say. “I mean, not not like that, but really not like that. I don’t know why I even asked you. I’m so sorry. I just thought, I don’t know, you seem like you’d be easy to talk to. But I hardly know you. But you did give me your number, so I was just thinking…”

I look down at Max and he stares at me, wide-eyed, more confused than even I probably am.

If there’s ever a moment for a deep, grounding breath, it’s now, so I take it. Even close my eyes for a second. After I let it go and open my eyes, I force myself to look Alec directly in his eyes.

“I could use a friend,” I tell him. “That’s all I was trying to say. You have no idea how much I could use a friend.”

He says nothing for a few agonizing seconds, after which he offers a gentle smile.

Finally, he says, “Yeah, I’d like that. I could use a friend, too.”

Thirty-Two

Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin

November 1

When Colin came over to his mother’s house, she wasn’t nearly done with her ranting. He’d let himself in, expecting her to be upstairs in her bedroom, medicated by gin and edging close to sleep. But she was in a small carpeted alcove next to the dining room, the spot where his parents always sat after his father came home from work. The place where they had a drink and discussed their respective days. This was a fixture as Colin grew up, and as a boy, he often joined them, munching on the homemade Chex Mix his mom always had out. As he grew older, Colin was less likely to be part of the weeknight ritual and more apt to be up in his room doing homework or out with friends. But he always had good memories, thinking of his parents together in this room, sometimes talking, other times sitting silently and just being together in a harmonious way that only happens when no one says a word.

Now, those memories felt like they belonged to someone else. It was just after eight in the evening, and the house had just enough lights on so Colin could navigate around the piles of junk. There was his mother, pacing back and forth in the alcove like a caged panther, all tension and no space, the ambient light rendering her ghostlike. She figure-eighted around stacks of magazines, an old lamp, and three barstools, muttering to herself as she paced, not even acknowledging Colin’s arrival.

“Goddamn fucking Bryson,” she said. “Bryson took our money.” She repeated variants of this same thing three times before Colin flicked on the alcove light, stopping her in her tracks.

“Who’s Bryson?” he asked. It didn’t really matter to him, but Colin had learned sometimes having her tell him about the subject of her latest outrage was enough to calm her down.