“Let’s just lie down for a minute. It couldn’t hurt. Maybe get some water.” All of my suggestions seemed instantly matronly to me.

“Daffodil . . . you’re going away next year . . . why are you going away next year?” It came out of nowhere, Zander’s voice, coming out in spurts, his thoughts, from brain to mouth.

“What do you mean . . . I’m going away? Everyone’s going away. It’s college! I don’t—”

“Yeah, but you’re really going away.” He stumbled then. “You’re gonna go away and never look back. Just. Poof. Burn rubber. You know it. I know it.” He frowned to himself, a parody of a drunk person.

“Zander, you’re being . . . well, look, someone spiked the punch and—”

“I’m not saying it just ’cause I’m drunk! I mean, I definitely am, but that’s not why I’m saying it. I’m saying it because it’s true. It’s the elephant in the room and you know it.”

In vino veritas.

(In wine lies the truth.)

And he was right, yes, he was, right there and then.

I was planning on burning rubber on this place.

Happily. Gleefully. With much joy and abandon.

The only part I wasn’t happy about was abandoning him.

I could think about that a bit longer, swirl it around in my mind here in this countessa bed. If there weren’t an insistent knock on the door below. Hurling me out of that rainy night in April and back here to this reality, which, honestly is becoming just as strange.

Knock knock knock.

Knock knock knock KNOCK!

I know who it is.

I was expecting this.

It’s going to be Mike, the bitter, surly, space-invading Mike. And he is going to want to talk to me.

Chapter 44

I know what you’re thinking.

Look, I get it.

Why don’t I just leave?

But again, you see, there is no choice here. I can’t leave. I’m strapped. Both metaphysically and financially. Strapped. I have to get through this thing. If I don’t get through this thing, I don’t get to move on. I know this. I know this so deeply it hums through my veins and sings in my bones.

And, let me tell you, there is no way I’m not moving on. I can’t go back home. No way. Not after the thing that cannot be mentioned.

“Hello! Open up! Open up the door here!” His voice echoes off the wooden walls and the moldings.

I contemplate what to do. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to open up to someone who already sounds angry. But maybe it’s something important. Like the gas being on or the water being off or whatever weird thing has to happen when you’re building something.

I make my way to the other side of the back door.

I do not open the door, however.

I just peek out the little window and act polite. “Is everything okay?”

He looks at me, realizing I’m not planning on opening the door.