I went home at 4 p.m., which was early for me but which I’d justified on the grounds that inventory was done and there was nothing left to do at the bar, and I was absolutely not going home early becauseI wanted to see Peter—except that I was absolutely going home early because I wanted to see Peter.
The apartment was quiet when I opened the door.
It was the particular quiet of a space that was occupied but still, the quiet of a man and his animals in their evening routine. He’d come home early from the clinic. No, that wasn’t right. He’d worked a regular shift that ended at a regular hour. He was home now. I was the one who’d come home earlier than expected. I was the one doing something extraordinary.
Fuck my life.
I could hear the faint clack of computer keys coming from the direction of Peter’s room, which meant he was at his desk, which meant he was writing or trying to write or staring at the cursor. Any of those activities carried a weight that I’d learned to respect by giving them distance.
I went to the kitchen and made a snack, then I stood at the fridge and read our Post-it notes, the old ones, the ones that had accumulated over months. I felt that particular ache of looking at something that used to feel simple and now felt enormous.
Then I noticed a new note tucked behind the edge of the whiteboard.
His handwriting was neat, precise, and unhurried.There were exactly four lines.
The pizzas were good. You should make them again. I liked the peach one especially. I’ve been thinking about the peach one all day, which is not something I expected to write on a Post-it note or in any other context.
— P
I read the note three times.
On the surface, it was about pizza.
It was one man complimenting another man’s cooking, which was a normal thing that normal roommates did. There was no reason to read it as anything other than a straightforward assessment of a baked good.
Except that Peter didn’t write Post-it notes about food.
Peter wrote Post-it notes about feeding schedules and shampoo territories and French press protocols. Peter’s Post-it notes werefunctional. They conveyed information that served a purpose, and the purpose was always the smooth operation of a shared living space.
“I’ve been thinking about the peach one all day” did not serve the smooth operation of anything.
“I’ve been thinking about the peach one all day”was Peter admitting that something Benji had made had occupied space in his mind.
Had been carried with him through a full day at the clinic, through surgeries and examinations and the structured routine of a man who did not let things occupy space in his mind without vetting them first.
Peter had been thinking about something I’d made.
All day.
And he’d written it down.
And he’d put it in our special spot.
I pulled the pen from the cup, then pulled a Post-it from the pad.
This time, I didn’t hesitate or stand there for five minutes weighing every word against the risk of saying too much. I just wrote the truth, because Peter had written his truth disguised as a pizza review, and the least I could do was write back with my own.
I’ll make them whenever you want. You don’t have to ask. Just leave the light on and I’ll know you’re up for it.
— B
I didn’t add a sparkle emoji, didn’t make a joke, didn’t try to deflect anything he’d said—ornot said.
I stuck my note below his, went to the foster room, closed the door, and sat on the bed with my hand pressed against my sternum where the warmth was, where it had been since midnight, where it was going to stay.
Chapter 22
Peter
