“I mean it. I’m sure there’s a couple’s therapist that will take your case. I’ve never seen two people so dedicated to honesty not being able to be honest with each other. You don’t communicate at all, you just think you do, and then you get trapped in this weird back-and-forth cycle. It’s not good for you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I’m not judging you, Joy. I just get the feeling you don’t see what’s happening clearly because you can’t. You’re too close. I’m not and I do.”

This is exactly what Joy meant when she called Fox brilliant. He portrays himself as one way, and one way only: the precise way he wants to be seen. Where one-liner quips and hmms and hesitant smiles are the most anyone can get out of him. He’s not reserved as in conservative—he’s reserved as in hidden.

But he keeps giving Joy glimpses of his insightful mind, keeps letting his guard down just enough for her to be surprised, and then it’s back up again.

Maybe he’s like Malcolm—so sensitive he had to learn to hide it. What could have made Fox want to shut his brilliance away?

“You understand, but you also don’t,” Joy says. “I don’t think it’s something I can explain. If you never experienced a relationship like what Malcolm and I have, you’ll never fully understand. You physically and mentally and emotionally can’t. You don’t just walk away from something like what we’ve built.” She sits up suddenly, rolling her neck and stretching her arms upward until her muscles feel too tight and protest.

“Okay,” he says. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

And with that, she closes that door again and all the lights cut off. Compartmentalizing until she can’t anymore.

Her and Fox. Nothing else.

“How do you feel about pie?”

His eyebrows raise immediately. “You can make pies too?”

“Someone has a sweet tooth. Apple okay? There’s a bunch of them in the breakfast pallet we can use. Come on.”

Joy collects her towel, and they clean up their uneaten breakfast feast before heading inside. She begins as she always does by turning on music. Apple pie requires slow jams: crooning, soulful ballads, and mid-tempo bops that make you sway in time to the rhythm and move your hips. Not sad enough to make you cry, but sappy enough to make you smile and feel nostalgic.

“The secret ingredient is the singing,” she whispers dramatically. “Dancing is optional for the uncoordinated.”

“Hmm.”

She shows him how to wash, cut, and prep the apples, giving him stern warning to use exact measurements. They make the dough together too. She puts him in charge of kneading with the instructions, “Be gentle with the dough. Make sure you and your sexy forearms don’t go overboard.”

“Excuse me?”