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“Oh. ”
I’m not sure what to say. There aren’t any words that will fix the defeat in his posture. The heavy dead sound of his voice, like someone has ripped all the fight out of him.
I know it’s bad because, when I stand in front of him and try to put my arms around him, he slumps against me hard enough that I have to lock my knees to hold him up.
Not for long. He gives himself ten seconds—surely no longer than that—and then pulls away.
He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I’m going to have to go home. ”
“Sure. ” He’ll have to make sure they’re safe. Talk to his mom. Check on his sister. “Tell me what I can do to help. ”
“I have to fly. Pack up my stuff. Right after this shift’s over. ”
“Will you stay for your exam?” He has a midterm at ten tomorrow morning.
“No, there’s no point. Listen, can you look up flights for me? See what’s the earliest I can get out of Des Moines. ”
“I will, but maybe you should take the exam, at least. So when you come back—”
It’s how he glances away that stops me.
It’s the pain I see before he turns his face so I can’t see it at all.
“West?”
He grips the tabletop with both hands. I’m looking at him in profile, his braced arms, lowered head, the straight line of his spine.
I know before he tells me.
He’s not coming back.
“It was never going to work out, anyway,” he says quietly. “I never had any business thinking it would. ”
“What wasn’t?”
“It’s not something I should have let myself think I could do. ”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. ”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. ”
“It matters a lot. West?”
When he looks up at me, he’s so far away. He’s in a state I’ve never been to, a place I’ve seen pictures of but can’t imagine, can’t smell. A town by an ocean I’ve never seen.
Oregon. I can’t even pronounce it right. He had to teach me how to say it like a native.
“Come on. Talk to me. ”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But she’s my sister, and I have to watch out for her. Nobody else is going to do it, nobody ever has. It’s my fault for thinking … It’s my fault. ”
The way he looks at me, it feels like goodbye, but it can’t be. We’re mixing up the bread. We’re going to be here for hours—firing the ovens, slicing into the loaves, venting the steam. After we get through t
omorrow, it’s spring break, and I probably won’t see him much for the week, but then we have the rest of the semester. Junior year. Senior year.
We have all this time still.
This can’t possibly be happening.
