Again

Aidan heard the door open and, without turning, muttered, “Bailey, get out. I’m not responsible for what I’ll do.” But the voice that answered wasn’t Noah’s. “Hey, dumbass.” Still not quite believing it, he rolled over — and there she was. Caitlin. In a cocktail dress and heels no one had asked her to take off, very clearly not arriving from home. She held a strange, almost ceremonial assortment: a wet towel, a bottle of vodka, a bag of ice, and a box of pills. “I can’t decide if you look more like a very confused nurse or the angel of death,” Aidan said — and even now, even like this, he couldn’t keep from smiling. “We’ll find out soon enough. This is from your concerned husband. But you’re not getting all of it at once,” she said, flinging the towel at his face. “I’m taking you out of here.” “Where?” “My place for now. Tomorrow we’ll reassess. Can you walk?” “No idea. Sitting’s definitely off the table.” “Why, why, why am I so smart, beautiful, and well-adjusted — and yet all my friends are idiots?” Cait groaned. “You’re friends with me again?” “Not yet. But I’m not trying to get an invite to your funeral either. And if you start crying and feeling sorry for yourself, I swear I will leave.” “You’re already crying.” “Liar. I just came in from the cold wearing summer shoes. You’d be sniffling too.” “Also, why do you look like that?” “Oh, you know. Was just sitting home alone in full glam, watching TV in heels. Like you do.” She glanced wistfully at the vodka. “This was the second date, by the way. Pete is… so normal. I’m seventy percent sure he’s not gay.” “Seventy?” “Shut up. That’s seventy percent more luck than I usually have. Are you getting up or not?” “Turn around.” “I’ll wait out there.” “No. Stay with me.” Caitlin stepped over to the window and stared out at the snow glowing under the streetlights, wincing like it physically hurt when behind her, Aidan hissed and muttered curses under his breath as he dressed — slowly, stiffly. Finally, he said, “Okay. I’m good.” She turned — and flinched. Only now did she actuallyseehim: the hollowed-out face, the way his clothes hung too loose on his frame. She didn’t comment on it. “I’m guessing we shouldn’t ask Noah for a ride,” she said. “We’ll come get your stuff the day after tomorrow. When he’s at work.” She was the first to step out of the bedroom — and immediately stopped Bailey, who had just started toward them. “Everyone stay exactly where you are and do not speak. Anything you say can and will be used against you. We’re leaving. Sorry, sweetheart — all communication is now going through me.” She gave Noah a quick hug and stepped in front of Aidan, who was jamming his feet into the first pair of boots he could find and pulling on a coat that might’ve actually been seasonally appropriate. Close enough. The taxi dropped them off in front of Caitlin’s house, and Aidan needed a minute to understand what he was seeing: a mass of branches near the porch — vaguely deer-shaped — and the whole front of the house lit up far too enthusiastically with… was that a string of lights? He turned slowly to look at her. “What day is it?” “The twenty-first,” Caitlin said, brushing past him to unlock the door. The living room was fully dressed for the holidays. A tree stood in the corner, glittering. The banister and doorframes were wrapped in garlands, and even the throw pillows matched the general mood of seasonal optimism. Aidan stopped in the middle of the room like he’d never seen it before. “My parents probably called…” he said quietly. “Bailey didn’t mention anything.” “What was he supposed to say? ‘Hey, Christmas is Tuesday, it’d be super great if you could get your shit together by then — we’ve got guests coming. Think you can manage?’” “I ruined the holiday,” Aidan muttered. “You did not ruin anything. I’m planning to ditch you in the next two days and throw a party like nothing happened. Hope you won’t take it personally.” “I won’t.” “Great. You’re in the guest room. Do you even sleep?” “Occasionally.” “Christ. I don’t even know if you’re allowed to drink.” She’d already kicked off her heels, padded barefoot to the fridge, and shoved the vodka into the freezer. “Well, I’m allowed. So that’s happening. Ifyou’redrinking, it’s food first. Non-negotiable. Are you hungry?” “I don’t know.” “Then you’ll eat in a state of uncertainty.” She shoved a plastic container into the microwave. “Leftover Sunday meal prep. But since you have no opinion, it’ll do. I’m going to change. But first — listen to me.” She paused. Aidan nodded. “When the microwave beeps, you’re going to take the food out and eat it. You don’t have to wash the dishes. You do have to wash your hands. If I hear the garbage disposal? So help me God.” She paused in the doorway. “I’ll be gone about fifteen minutes. If you kill yourself in my house or anywhere near it, I will tell everyone you requested aquamation.” “Honestly? Sounds kinda nice,” Aidan said, taking off his coat. But when Caitlin made a low, distinctly feline sound of warning — something between a growl and a death omen — he quickly added, “Okay, okay. I’m not doing anything like that here.” “Much better.” When she returned, she was makeup-free, in pajamas and an oversized cardigan, looking like a very tired camp counselor. Her guest was finishing eggplant pasta over the sink — almost without gagging — which earned him not only praise but two shots on the table. “I’m not sitting here,” Aidan said, wincing. “That’s not a metaphor. I literally can’t.” “No. I’m not sitting here.” Kate poured the vodka. “I’m still having trouble looking at you, so let’s do the couch — opposite ends. I’ll come back for refills, and we’ll stop whenever I can no longer cross the room.” Aidan nodded, tossed back his shot, and curled up at one end of the couch under a fleece throw covered in reindeer. He claimed one corner. Caitlin claimed the other. Three feet stretched between them like a contested border. “Tell me about Pete,” Aidan said. “No.” “Why not?” “Because you’re only asking to be polite. I’ll tell you when you actually care — if there’s anything left to tell by then.” She paused, then added — carefully: “Tell me about… Blake.” “There’s nothing left to tell. He’s got a guy now. Jeff. Been seeing him for a while. He cheated on me with him.” “I’m not going to comment on your choice of phrasing.” “Please don’t.” “Weird I didn’t know anything. Who the hell is Jeff?” Aidan sighed, picked up his phone from the floor, and after a moment, tossed it to Caitlin. “Here. Found him.” “Huh. I know him — or I’ve seen him,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “He was at one of those crossover parties this summer. Asked me where I was from.” “Not a weird question.” “No, you don’t get it. He asked where I moved from — like, which kind of Asian am I. Like it’s a region-specific diagnosis.” “Oh God.” “So I told him I’m a very rare Wisconsin-based Asian, name of Young, and offered to compare whose family had been here longer. He declined.” “You think Cooper was just really good at hiding it — that he’s always been an idiot, deep down, and Jeff just brought it out?” “Probably. And look, Iama little curious about how that happened, what kind of tragic accident that was… but as much as you’re pissing me off right now, I can’t lie — you’re obviously better than him.” “I’m not.” “You are! You’ve never said anything like, ‘On what basis do you disagree with me?’” “I’m pretty sure I’ve said, ‘Agree with me immediately, Young.’” “Tone and facial expression matter, Moore!” They sat in silence for a long time, until finally Caitlin gave a low snort and asked, “You think this was the fault in his inches? All nine of them?” “I really hope so,” Aidan said. “But let’s say ten. And let him live with it for the rest of his life.” “That sounds like a toast. Hold on — I’ll get more.” An hour later, they’d somehow drifted toward each other — now tucked under a pile of throw pillows, lit by the glow of the Christmas tree. Aidan was speaking in a low, even voice, somewhere in the vicinity of Caitlin’s collarbone. “You know how sometimes you walk into another room and completely forget why you went in? It was the opposite for me. I went with Blake to that place — and forgot where I’d come from. Like, just Friday, I was going to work, coming home, packing a suitcase, having sex with my husband, thinking, God, ten days is a long time without him… and then on the plane, Cooper’s looking out the window, and he turns to me and says, ‘Babe, you’re finally all mine.’ And something just—snapped. Like every circuit in my brain blew at once. And I thought, Oh. I’ve been waiting for this. This whole time. And I didn’t know if he was being serious, or what it meant, or why now, or what the hell he’d been waiting for—” “But did you ever figure it out?” “No. Not really. There wasn’t time. Everything just started happening — constantly, completely, overwhelmingly. And I— God, I don’t even know how to explain it. I’d never felt anything like it before. I’d be completely gone over the dumbest shit — like we’d be standing on some freezing-ass fortress wall eating the last half of a sandwich, and it would feel like a religious experience. Or riding the subway. Or sex. Or walking through museums for hours. Or standing in line for groceries. Jesus, we were holding hands. What the hell?” “What an asshole,” Caitlin sighed. “You too. But at least you fell in love. I still don’t know what the fuck he was doing.” “I never said I was in love,” Aidan murmured. “Where’d you get that?” “Oh. Right. Sorry.” “Just—imagine how hard that would be to walk away from. It’s awful, but… I didn’t even think about Noah while I was there. And when Cooper mentioned him, it pissed me off. I couldn’t text him, I couldn’t even type the usual ‘Love you’ at the end of a message — it just wouldn’t come out. It felt like… God, this is so fucking dumb… It felt like if I did that, I’d be cheating on Cooper. And I really, really, really didn’t want that. And then I came home — and apparently my life just kept going without me. I tried to plug back into it, but something was broken. Some parts were missing. I couldn’t make it work. And Blake… I’m pretty sure he wasn’t letting me go.” “But then he did?” Caitlin asked gently, stroking his hair. “More like he ran me over with a steamroller. Caitlin Beth — have you ever been steamrolled? It’s not great. I didn’t know words could feel like that. Just—hurt, in that specific way. And the worst part? I don’t think it’s fixable. It should’ve started getting easier by now, right? So why hasn’t it? Why do I still feel him missing — beside me, around me, inside me? I don’t want to feel this way. But I don’t feel anything else anymore. There’s Blake-shaped hollow… and then there’s just hollow. I’m not even especially sad, if I’m honest. I just… feel nothing.” There was a long silence. Then Caitlin asked, carefully: “Aidan Moore. Tell me the truth — can I leave you alone in that room tonight?” He exhaled. “I think so. I don’t want to hurt myself. I’m not planning anything. It’s just… It could happen. Because I don’t believe it could happen.” “You’ve officially forgotten how to speak like a person.” “No, but… I just don’t believe what’s around me is real. Because how do you believe in anything if you can’t feel it? It’s like—I was driving along this perfect road. Great weather. Beautiful view. Everything was… just unbelievably good. And then I closed my eyes for half a second—and now I’m at the bottom of the ocean. The car slid down so smoothly I didn’t notice. And now everything’s still. And somehow, I can still breathe. But it’s dark. And quiet. And nothing moves. I’m not cold. I’m not warm. And I keep thinking — if I open the door, nothing will change. There’s this part of me that remembers you’re not supposed to open the door underwater — everyone knows that —but I’m starting to think that’s not true.” “I’m sleeping with you tonight,” Caitlin said. “Don’t worry. In the worst-case scenario, I’ve got something. A photo. It’s just Blake, looking at me like there’s no one else in the world. You see it, and it hurts so bad you lose the ability to function. It’s pretty reliable,” Aidan gave a small, joyless laugh. “And honestly… I’m grateful for it. Because for one second, something comes back.” Caitlin pulled him in tighter, but didn’t say a word. “Did Bailey tell you what happened today?” “Roughly.” “How could he agree to that? Wasn’t it obvious I didn’t understand what I was doing?” “With you, it’s hard to tell. Sometimes you say stuff that sounds insane, but it’s just your regular Tuesday.” “I’m sorry.” “You don’t usually get a chance to hurt me. But yourself… and Noah…” “I think I can’t talk to him ever again.” “You can.” “And I’ve ruined threesomes for myself forever. Which sucks. I loved them.” “There are worse things.” “There are. I need to be alone.” “Come on, I’ll put you to bed.” Aidan didn’t protest as Caitlin helped him out of his sweater, tucked him in, then thought better of it and added a second blanket. “Katie… He’s not coming back, is he?” “I hope not.” “I knew that already.” “No, you didn’t. But now you’re starting to know.” “I don’t want to.” “I can see that. Sleep. I hope I see you in the morning.”

***

Vanessa Moore was a near-perfect example of a human being made entirely out of harmonious contradictions. She had marched in every major women’s protest in Chicago from the 1960s onward, including — and probably not ending with, though she reminded everyone not to count on her for any future civic engagements — the Fourth of July 2017 march for Trump’s impeachment and the annual Women’s March the following January. She was seventy-eight, though she fully intended to live a while longer. Just not, as she constantly informed her family, through anything important. The walls of her home were lined with a delightful and dangerous assortment of photos: Vanessa alongside Betty Friedan, the neighborhood’s very conservative pastor, and a well-known Instagram influencer who’d asked for a selfie because he loved her “energy and look” at last year’s protest. Grandma Moore fiercely defended abortion rights — and had five children of her own. (“But not seven,” she snapped at anyone who tried to catch her in a double standard. “I wanted exactly five.”) She was a passionate, full-throated advocate for same-sex marriage — but had extremely high standards for what she considered an appropriate lifestyle. (“I supported marriage,” she clarified. “Not living in sin.”) And perhaps most famously, she once organized a petition to mandate sex ed in public schools… but never spoke a single word on the subject with her own children. (“That’s what school was for,” she explained. “I wasn’t qualified to teach that at home.”) This, then, was the woman Caitlin chose to send Aidan to. Her logic was impeccable: ✔️He needed to get out of Madison — Grandma Moore lived in Chicago. ✔️He couldn’t afford rent — there was a chance a relative wouldn’t charge. ✔️His parents were part of that generation that insisted on havingconversationsabout feelings and mental health. Vanessa Moore had no such affliction. And so, Aidan began what would become an indeterminate stretch of time surrounded by floral curtains, chicken casseroles, Jeopardy!, Dancing with the Stars, RuPaul’s Drag Race, the Christian Television Network, Tuesday night poker, and Friday bingo at the church social hall — from the latter he was mercifully excused — due to a documented allergy to both churches and bingo cards.” He also acquired, somewhat reluctantly, a therapist: Dr. Poulson. Their relationship did not get off to a warm start. At their first session, she took one glance at Aidan and his intake paperwork and said: “I'm referring you to my colleague, Dr. Dhar. He’ll prescribe medication. Come back to me for therapy after that.” Aidan bristled. “Why do you assume I need meds to get through this?” “That’s not an assumption. That’s a clinical fact,” she replied, unbothered. “I’d say the same thing to someone with sepsis — you don’t treat it with conversation. You’ll hear from his assistant soon.” Five days later, Aidan became the emotionally detached owner of a bright orange prescription bottle. Shortly after that, he started sleeping sixteen hours a day, taking ten minutes to decide between scrambled eggs and an omelet, and displaying a hand tremor that rivaled Vanessa Moore’s eighty-five-year-old poker buddy. The prescription was adjusted. Then adjusted again. And Aidan became so engrossed in vaguely monitoring his own shifting symptoms that the idea of sitting in a chair and trying to speak coherently — or even silently suffer in a compelling way — for forty-five minutes struck him as completely absurd. Which meant their actual first session didn’t happen until six weeks later. The day before, Caitlin had sat Aidan down and patiently briefed him on what to expect — and how to make sure he didn’t just waste money crying silently in a comfortable chair. “You can cry in silence at home,” she told him. “For free. So grab a pen and write down anything you think might matter.” It didn’t help much. Aidan stared down at the smudged handwriting — his own, though it felt like someone else had written it — and couldn’t say a word. There was a rustling sound, and suddenly a box of tissues appeared in front of him. It took him a second to realize what that meant — and a second more to notice he’d been wiping his eyes on his sleeve for a while now. Ten minutes passed in silence, broken only by sniffling and uneven breaths. Finally, Dr. Poulson said — calm, unfazed: “You don’t have to start at the beginning, Aidan. Start wherever you can.” And so he did. Out of order, halting, skipping from things that happened months or years ago to something that had just unraveled last week, then back again. He’d leave sentences half-finished, switch scenes mid-thought, refer to people only as “he” or “they” without explanation, like Dr. Poulson had full access to the cast list in his head. Stopped. Started. Drifted. And then paused for so long it felt like the story might have ended. Dr. Poulson, voice steady as ever, offered a summary: “So. You cheated on your husband.” Aidan flinched, staring at her with something close to hatred. “That’s not true.” “It is.” “Take it back.” “And then what? What would I do with it? Let’s talk instead about whatyou’regoing to do now that we’ve said it out loud.” “I didn’t say anything.” The psychologist just looked at him, silent. “You’re a terrible therapist. You’re supposed to calm people down when they’re on the edge — not make it worse.” “You’re mistaken. It’s not my job to calm you down. Alright. Tell me — in your opinion, what is cheating?” “It’s when some asshole in a closed relationship sleeps around, enjoys it, and maybe even gets off on the fact that it’s behind their partner’s back. The secrecy, the risk — it’s part of the thrill.” “So to clarify: You’re not an asshole, the relationship wasn’t closed, you didn’t enjoy it, and the risk wasn’t a turn-on — which means the term ‘cheating’ doesn’t apply?” “Well. Okay, yeah. There might be some disagreement about whether the relationship was closed, but otherwise — yes. That’s exactly right. I just didn’t even think about Bailey most of the time.” “And now?” “Now I think about him constantly.” “In what way?” “In the way that he didn’t deserve any of it. And if he ever finds out — I mean really finds out — I’ll probably just drop dead on the spot.” “Why?” “Oh my God, did you actually go to school for this? Isn’t it obvious?” “No,” she said calmly. “Explain it to me.” “He’s too trusting,” Aidan said, breathless. “I could literally leave my email open, no passcode on my phone, and it would never evenoccurto him to look. He doesn’t blow up my phone when I go out without him. I’ve gone on vacations — alone or with friends — not with him. And he’s never questioned it. He didn’t even notice at that party, when I disappeared for twenty minutes and came back with Cooper — and it was so obvious something had just happened. You’d have to be blind and nose-dead not to see it. But he didn’t. Because he never looks at me with any suspicion. He thinks I’m infallible. Me!” “Let’s not assume what other people think,” Dr. Poulson said evenly. “Talk about yourself.” “You mean you think he knows? Or at least suspects? Oh no. No, no, no — I can’t see him again if that’s true. Ever.” “I didn’t say anything.” “Or maybe he knows I slept with someone, but not that it was Blake?” “If you’d like, we can set up a couples session and ask him. Until then…” “That’s hilarious.” “What’s bothering you most right now?” “That Noah will find out.” “And then?” “Well, first of all — like I said — I’ll be torn to pieces by guilt.” “You’re not already?” “I am. But it’s different.” “And after the tearing-to-pieces part?” “He’ll leave me.” “But you’ve already said you can’t see him again. So why would that be a problem?” “Why don’t you understand anything?!” “Because I’m not you. Explain it to me.” “I don’t want him to hate me. Or despise me.” “Let’s imagine he does neither. Then what would you do?” “I guess… I’d have to divorce him? We can’t actually stay together after this… right?” Dr. Poulson said nothing. Aidan started to twitch in his seat. “Why aren’t you helping me?! Where’s your advice?” “I don’t give advice.” “Are you even human?” He dragged his hands over his face. “Oh my God. I don’t know what to do. Am I never supposed to speak to Blake again? Or should I reach out and apologize for the way I acted? Why isn’theapologizing? Is there even a guarantee that if Cooper and I make up, we’ll be friends again? And what if we make up so well that something happens again?” “You’re asking the right questions, Aidan,” she said. “Sit with them until next time. The only thing I’ll tell you is this: Nothing happens to people. People make things happen. They choose to act — or not. Everything that’s happened so far was something you did. Everything that happens next will be the result of your choices.” She closed her notebook. “Take care.” “Thanks, Samantha,” Aidan muttered. Almost kept the sarcasm out of his voice.

***

Therapy days always started with a faint buzz of irritation. Grandma Moore no longer had to ask. If she saw her grandson in the kitchen first thing in the morning — aggressively, yet somehow more engaged than usual, shoveling breakfast into his mouth while scribbling furiously in a notebook — she knew a taxi would be pulling up soon to take him to Dr. Poulson’s office. No one in the house was prepared to trust him behind the wheel just yet. The first few times, he’d practically ooze into her office — a shapeless, grief-colored mist barely clinging to human form. But slowly, over the course of several sessions, things began to take shape. A spine emerged. Then shoulders that held themselves up. Hands that clutched the armrests. A foot that kicked rhythmically at the leg of the chair. Eyes that sparked when provoked. He was starting to look — just faintly — like someone who might be alive. Dr. Poulson’s office was not a safe harbor. It wasn’t the kind of peaceful refuge where you drop anchor during a storm and eventually drift into calm seas. No. Absolutely not. Aidan thought of those three hundred and twenty square feet of soundproofed, perfectly climate-controlled space as a battlefield. So far, he was on defense. But he was already planning his counterattack. How could henot, when she kept saying the most infuriating things? Especially that “So…” — always tossed out casually, like she was just summarizing his own words back to him. The nerve. All those sessions with: So, you feel like you’re wasting your time here, throwing away your last shot at a successful career. So, you’re planning to kill yourself. So, you think if you tell your husband the truth, he’ll never trust another human being again. So, you’re not sure you can function in a monogamous marriage—oh, sorry, you’re sure you can’t? My mistake. So, you’re still waiting for Blake to realize he made a mistake, dump that sleazeball Jeff, and come crawling back. (Maybe that last one was worded differently. But not that differently.) So, what we’ve established is that you’re a useless, lying, somewhat slutty mid-range photographer of nearly middle age. Now what do we do with that, Aidan? That last one hadn’t been said. Not yet. But Aidan fully expected it. He was already preparing his rebuttal. He was gathering counter-evidence. There wasn’t much. It wouldn’t even fill a shoebox. But he was determined to keep adding to it. At one session, after another bout of infuriating So-ing, Dr. Poulson said something that actually startled him: “You want to talk to your husband.” “What? No! What the hell, Samantha?” “You mentioned that you keep asking Caitlin about him. That you ‘obsessively’ — your word — check his school’s news feed in case he’s mentioned, since he stopped using Instagram. You start drafting a message to him every day but haven’t sent a single one. And you’ve been inventing excuses to call. What was the latest one?” “I was going to pretend Kieran urgently needed some hard drives from last year’s photoshoots. And then I’d call Noah to ask if he could find them. But I’d act like I couldn’t remember where they were, so I’d keep making him look in the wrong places. And maybe, in between, he’d tell me something about himself.” “You don’t see anything strange about that plan?” “No, Samantha, I do not! And I’m pretty sure you’re not even allowed to use the word ‘strange’ — it’s a value judgment.” “Still reading the practice guide for licensed psychologists? Good. Better than doomscrolling social media.” “Thanks for the permission,” Aidan muttered. “You can reestablish contact however you want. I’m sure you know better than I do how it needs to happen.” That evening, Aidan spent nearly an hour just staring at his phone. Then, all at once, on a single breath, he typed and sent: Hey. How’s Ewan? And you? The reply came almost instantly: Hey! And a photo of the cat, sprawled out on the back of the couch, mid-glare — clearly just woken up and deeply displeased about it. Then: I’m okay. It was classic Noah: answering questions exactly in the order they were asked. Also obvious? That Caitlin had spoken to him. He didn’t add anything extra. Not even a casual I miss you. Because Noah would’ve known that Aidan’s not-quite-stable brain might take that as pressure. So instead, just: How are you? Aidan typed: Okay. Sorry, I’ve got to go help Vanessa. And sent it. Cowardly. Then tossed the phone like it burned. His heart was pounding. He got up. Paced the room. Made it to the kitchen. Drank some water. Later that night, after his evening meds had kicked in, Aidan dared to revisit their outstanding text exchange. Nothing new had been added. Still, for lack of a better idea, he zoomed in on the photo — just to check if any reflective surfaces had accidentally caught Noah’s image. No such luck. Even the cat’s eyes were half-shut. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected to see. That Bailey had lost weight, grown a beard, and surrendered all will to live? Or that he looked healthier and happier than ever? Still—he’d answered. Immediately. No pause, no flickering typing dots that appear and vanish again, hinting at a drawn-out internal struggle — only to result in a devastatingly flat “Hey.” That had to mean something. Buoyed just slightly by that small success, Aidan decided he might try messaging again in a day or two. In the meantime, he would attempt not to obsess over it, and continue living a life not all that different from Grandma Moore’s. They got up early. Ate lightly. Went for walks. Made it to the supermarket once or twice a week, where both of them ran out of energy by the twenty-minute mark and barely dragged themselves to checkout. They napped in the afternoons. Watched TV. Played the simplest phone games available. Asked other family not to visit for now, but made polite exceptions for Grandma’s friends — who seemed slightly more thrilled to talk to Aidan than he was to talk to them. Every so often, some former version of Aidan would suddenly remember that he used to have a sex life. Apparently, he’d liked it. Though he couldn’t quite recall why. He couldn’t want sex, not really. But that didn’t stop him from stubbornly trying to force the issue. Once in a while, it produced something faintly resembling relief. More often, it ended in wrist pain (or pain in both wrists), a dead battery, and disappointment. Even the disappointment felt muted — which was almost worse. There were days he found himself wishing he could at least feel that. So occasionally, he’d try intimidation tactics: muttering curses under his breath, growling “Work! Why the fuck won’t you work?!” through clenched teeth. Eventually, that got boring too. He’d give up and scroll through very short videos that were supposed to be funny. They weren’t. Apparently, his sense of humor had vanished to the same undisclosed location as his libido. Sometimes Caitlin came to visit. Aidan tried not to have the same conversation for the tenth time, but nothing new was happening, so he mostly stayed quiet while she chatted with Grandma Moore. At the end of February, the two Moores — and Young, who was spending the weekend with them — finally ventured out into public. There wasn’t much debate about where to go. By 10 a.m. Saturday, they were at the Museum of Contemporary Art. The eldest member of the group promptly retired to the café, but not before entertaining her companions with a story about how she’d once posed for Marisol Escobar’s sculpture series Six Women. Her grandson nodded gravely and said of course, that had been obvious from the start — he’d recognized her right away as the third figure from the left. The sculpture in question was a blocky wooden form: a rectangular base topped by a rounded cube, jutting forward with what experts generally agreed was a large, conical nose. To disagree would have required hours of delicate debate — or none at all. The muse bowed out gracefully and went off to enjoy her well-earned museum brunch. The two remaining art lovers wandered the galleries a bit, but mostly they sat in front of various installations, whispering about what they might be looking at — without bothering to check the plaque for confirmation. It wasn’t until nearly three hours in that Aidan hesitantly squeezed Caitlin’s hand and asked: “When’s the last time you saw Bailey?” “Couple weeks ago.” “Do you know if he’s… seeing anyone?” “I thought you two were talking.” “Well, we’ve been exchanging a few messages. He sends me pictures of Ewan and ridiculous quotes from his students’ essays. I send him updates from Tuesday night poker. You really think I’d just ask if he’s seeing someone now?” Aidan’s voice had climbed far above museum-appropriate levels. People were starting to glance over. He immediately dropped into a hissed whisper. “I don’t even have the right to ask!” “Oh, for God’s sake. Of course you do.” “I can’t.” “I thought you were older than fourteen.” “You were wrong.” “Ask him right now.” “Are you insane?” Aidan hissed, snatching his hand away. “You’ve spent thousands on therapy and you’re still pretending none of it sunk in?” “I only go to therapy to keep you people calm! The actual work I do on my own, without the help of any Dr. Poulsons!” “Okay then.” “I’m going to message him!” “No, you’re not.” “Yes, I am!” “If you actually do, I’ll be shocked.” “If I message him, you lose the bet, and you’ll have to…” “Sure. Anything.” “…run Jeff over with your car.” “Gladly. No problem.” “Thank you. I’m texting him.” “You really don’t look like you are.” Aidan turned away and typed — no greeting, just: Do you want to divorce me? The silence stretched. At first, he just sat there, white-knuckling the phone. Then he stood and started pacing the gallery. Sat back down. Bent over, head between his knees, trying not to scream. Almost chewed through a finger. Finally, after what felt like forever (approximately three minutes), a reply came: What?! No. What is this?? Call me. Right now. Aidan, can you talk right now? I don’t care. I’m calling. Aidan actually let out a little scream and dropped the phone. It rang anyway. Caitlin shook her head and picked it up. “Hi. Yeah. Of course he can talk. Right now.” And then, in full public view, she smacked him on the ass and shoved the phone into his hand. Aidan, now exhibiting a full bouquet of symptoms — stuttering, trembling hands, general panic — pressed the phone to his ear and started walking, faster and faster, not looking where he was going. “B-b-Bailey?” “I don’t want to divorce you.” “Mhm.” “Do you want to?” “N-n-no.” “Then come home.” “I… I can’t.” “Aidan…” “N-n-no, really. I— I can’t. I’m in therapy. And I… I’m just not— not me. And it’s…” “How much longer are you staying?” “D-d-don’t know.” “Can I come to you?” “P-p-probably not a good idea.” He heard it — the longest, heaviest exhale he’d ever encountered in his life. “Okay. But you have to message me at least once a day. Morning or night. One message minimum.” “Okay.” “I don’t want to divorce you.” “Me neither.” “Get better.” “I’ll try.” “Bye.” “Bye.” Aidan blinked and realized — with mild confusion — that he was standing outside the museum, gripping the metal railing of the front steps like a lifeline. It was freezing. His heart was still hammering somewhere in his throat. Before the adrenaline could drain out of him entirely, he lifted his phone, snapped a quick selfie, and sent it to Noah.

***

On an ordinary Wednesday, Aidan and Grandma Moore were, as usual, watching The Talk on CBS. Sara, Sharon, Sheryl, and Eve were all in their places in the brightly lit studio, surrounded by succulents, entertaining the audience with the latest cheerful nonsense and offering their takes. They were, as always, a hell of a lot more engaging than a black screen. At that moment, the hosts were discussing a bone-chilling story of corporate sexism — a woman who’d risen to CFO at a major company, yet somehow still hadn’t been given her own office. Instead, she worked out of a tiny converted janitor’s closet like some financial Harry Potter. That story was horrifying… Right up until the show cut to breaking news. There are certain words, numbers, and images that should never appear together. Like: “Wanted” — followed by someone you know. “EF2 tornado or stronger” — and your city’s name. “Crash on I-90” — under a photo of a car that looks way too familiar. “Shooting incident” — and the name of the school where your husband works. Aidan stopped breathing. Squeezed his eyes shut. Told himself he was overreacting. Or maybe not. Maybe it had said Eken Middle School — but obviously some other one, in some other state. Sure, the situation was still awful, but at least— The anchor obligingly said “Wisconsin.” And thirty seconds later: “Madison, Wisconsin.” “This can’t be happening…” Vanessa began — but one look at her grandson’s face told her it could. And it was. She considered slapping him — or whatever it was people did to snap someone out of shock —but Aidan beat her to it. He jolted upright and started dialing Noah’s number. “No. No, no, no — pick up!” “Look at the screen,” Grandma said, trying to steady him. “There’s chaos — he’s probably checking on the kids, he can’t answer right now.” “That would take two seconds!” “Call the secretary. You know where to find that number?” “Yeah. Yeah — hang on.” Aidan thought he’d saved the school secretary’s number. But it was gone. No listing under “secretary,” “assistant,” or “vice principal.” Nothing. “I couldn’t delete it. I couldn’t!” he kept muttering, scrolling back through the call log for the fifth time. “God— I saved it under her name! What the hell was her name?!” “Google it, Aidan. Google,” Grandma cut in sharply. One minute later, he had it. And it didn’t matter. The line was jammed. Aidan called Noah again. Then the office. Then Noah. Then the office. Again. And again. He didn’t hear a single word coming from the television anymore. But Grandma did. "They don’t know anything about victims yet. The police are still in the building — it literally just happened." "I have to go." He was already rushing to his room, throwing on the first clothes he could find, grabbing his license and charger. "I’m taking your car." "Let’s wait. They’ll say something soon." "No, I can’t. I’m his husband — they’ll have to give me information. Oh God, thank you, I’m still his husband. I’ll call as soon as I know anything. Take one of my anxiety meds — the blue ones." "Okay." He ran out without his own meds, without anything but keys and panic. It felt strange to be driving again for the first time in almost four months. He tried to turn on the radio for updates, but the noise pulled his focus off the road — and the road demanded focus. Because it was spring. In Illinois too, sure. But especially in Wisconsin, roads in spring disintegrated right along with the snow. They cracked, crumbled, turned pockmarked like they’d been hit by a meteor shower. The highway departments didn’t sit idle — as soon as the thaw ended, they launched repairs. Which would continue, in sections and detours, right up until the first snow. It meant that every drive involved a slowdown, a reroute, or a standstill. One lane open. Speed limits dropped to a crawl. Aidan sat through one of those delays for a full half hour, then took the first exit and jumped onto the toll road. Where he immediately hit a new traffic jam. He made it to Madison in just under three hours, calling Noah every time he was confident there weren’t any state troopers nearby. Bailey still wasn’t answering. That wasn’t normal. There wasnoversion of reality where Noah would choose to ignore him at a moment like this. Both Aberg Avenue and North Sherman were still blocked off by police. He had to abandon the car and walk four blocks on foot, explaining at every corner who he was, why he was here, and why he had to keep going. By the fifth stop, it felt natural again — to say he was Noah Bailey’s husband, not just Aidan Moore. The school itself was no longer locked down, just taped off. A single patrol car was stationed at the edge of the perimeter. They wouldn’t let him past the tape, but after checking his ID, they promised to find out what they could. One of the officers kept a hand on his shoulder as the other spoke into a radio, then double-checked Aidan’s license. “Moore?” the man asked. “M-O-O-R-E. Noah...” “No! Wait — Bailey! B-A-I-L-E-Y!” Aidan shouted, suddenly cursing the fact that they’d never hyphenated their names. The correction was relayed. The officer nodded and, with no preamble, said: “He’s not among the injured.” The world tilted. And it’s possible the back of Aidan’s skull would’ve met the pavement if that hand hadn’t still been holding him upright. “Sir, are you okay? Was there anyone else you know at the school? No local fatalities. Do you hear me? The shooter injured one upperclassman — and one teacher accidentally shot her colleague, mistaking him for the gunman. But everyone’s alive. Except… well, that part’s not relevant. Can you hear me? Do you need medical attention?” “No,” Aidan said, voice barely there. “I… I just need Noah.” “Go home. Some staff are still giving statements at the precinct. But they’ll be released soon.” Aidan nodded and walked slowly back to the car. Ewan met him at the door. The cat, normally not one for being picked up, didn’t resist when Aidan scooped him into his arms — maybe moved by the moment. Or maybe just too stunned to fight back. They sat like that on the couch, both staring into nothing. It was strange — how a door handle, something you’d seen turned a thousand times, could suddenly carry so much weight. How that second, the turning of a knob and the sound of hinges, could become the one moment everything depends on. He wasn’t afraid. Over the past eighteen weeks, he’d convinced himself he might not survive losing Blake. Now, thoughts of Cooper registered only as a dull ache. But losing Noah — truly losing him — would’ve emptied him out for good. The cat heard it first. Perked up, ears twitching. Stood. And padded slowly toward the front door. He was right. The handle turned. And the door opened.