Not no.
Not yes.
Not yet, which meant that the yet existed, which meant that somewhere on the other side of the grief and the walls and the blue mug and the half second, there was a door I hadn’t opened and I was, for the first time, acknowledging that it was there and that maybe, just maybe, I wanted to open it and see what might live on the other side.
Benji’s fingers tightened on mine.
Just slightly.
A pressure so small it could have been involuntary, or could have been the most deliberate thing he’d ever done.
Then Princess Consuela, who had been in her carrier behind the couch for the entire evening, and who had apparently selected this precise moment to register her displeasure with the duration of her confinement, let out ayowlof such piercing, existential outrage that we both flinched. The blanket dropped, and the moment shattered the way soap bubbles break, gently and completely and with thefaint shimmer of something that had been beautiful while it lasted.
“Your cat,” I said, “has the worst timing in the entire animal kingdom.”
“She has impeccable timing. She saw an emotional moment developing and shut it down. She’s protecting me from myself.”
“She’s a terrorist.”
“She’smyterrorist.”
I picked up the blanket, folded it correctly, in thirds, lengthwise, then in thirds again, because some things should be done properly even when your hands are shaking.
Mine were.
I couldn’t remember the last time my hands had shaken outside of a surgical emergency.
“Good night, Peter,” Benji said as I finished the last fold.
“Night, Benj.”
I drifted down the hall, in no hurry to bid the night adieu.
I left my door open about three inches, which I’d been doing for Hiro on bad nights, but which I’d started doing on other nights, too, for reasons I’d attributed to airflow and was now willing to admit had nothing to do with airflow.
I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling fan I couldn’tsee and listening to the apartment settle.
To Benji’s footsteps down the hall.
To his door closing softly.
To Princess Consuela’s chirp of recognition.
To the creak of his bed.
I pressed my hand against my chest and felt my own heartbeat, still elevated, still carrying the expectancy of a moment where I’d held a blanket and a man’s fingers and my own breath . . .
And had said, “Not yet,” instead of “No.”
And had meant it.
Chapter 21
Benji
Ilay in the foster room with Princess Consuela vibrating in her carrier and Hiro breathing steadily on the dog bed in the corner. He’d started splitting his nights between Peter’s room and mine, a development neither of us had discussed but that we both tracked through the sound of his claws on the hallway floor at 2 a.m. I held my right hand against my chest and felt the residual warmth of Peter’s fingers on my skin. I couldn’t stop replaying the moment. The memory was starting to smooth at the edges.
Not yet.
