Dante gave me an understanding nod. “No worries, man. I know you were stressed. She’s okay now, it’s in the past.”
The stew was thick with potatoes and something that could have been venison, the sort of food people made when they wanted to fill up a body and quiet a mind.
I ate standing up at the sink, watching the swirl of fat and carrot pieces, listening to the small clinks of Dante and Amelia’s conversation behind me.
I tried to tune them out, but every so often I imagined I heard my name, forcing my muscles to tense, waiting for the verdict.
After I finished, I set the bowl down with a thunk and turned to face the room.
Dante was telling some story about his dad and a busted snowblower, and Amelia was smiling in that way that meant she was only half-listening. Her eyes flicked to me, then away, and I felt something coil tight in my gut.
I went to the living room and sat on the farthest end of the couch, boots muddying the ancient rug.
For a while, I just stared at the fog beyond the window, letting my mind white out. I counted the knots in the wood paneling. I watched a spider slow-motion its way down from the ceiling. I tried not to think about how close I’d come to losing her today, how my hands still ached from the way I’d held her after.
Eventually, Amelia came and sat next to me. Not close, she left a whole cushion between us, as if we were strangers waiting at a bus stop. She had a blanket draped around her shoulders.
I let the silence breed, tried to be the one who broke it, but the words never made it to my throat. I was good at violence but not at being quiet. At last, she said, "You know, I'm not made out of glass." She picked at the ragged edge of the knit, keeping her eyes out the window.
I wanted to laugh, but didn't quite manage. "I know that. If you were, I'd have shattered you years ago."
She pulled the blanket tighter. "You're not the villain in my story anymore, if that's what you're worried about."
I didn't know what to say to that. I wanted to believe her, but I could still taste the villain in my mouth, could still see the look in her eyes the first time I'd scared her for real. There were things you couldn't fix, no matter how many times you apologized.
I wanted to reach over and fix the blanket where it slipped off her shoulder. I wanted to touch her so bad it was almost a physical pain, but I kept my hands locked in my lap.
A minute passed. Then another, the quiet filling up with the sounds of wood popping in the stove and the lake ticking against the dock outside.
“Do you remember that time in high school I locked you in the gym equipment closet?” I said, the words popping out before I could stop them.
She side-eyed me, lips in a straight line. “I try not to remember anything from high school.”
I let out a small, humorless laugh. “Probably smart.”
Beyond the kitchen wall, I could hear Dante moving around, cleaning up, giving us space. He was always good at that. Disappearing just enough to let someone else fill the room.
“I haven’t apologized for that,” I said. “Or for a lot of things.”
She shrugged, the blanket slipping a little farther. “I don’t need any more apologies, Caiden. I’m not sure what I’d even do with them.”
That stung, but I deserved it.
“I can’t stop worrying about you,” I said quietly. “Even when I know it pisses you off. Even when you’re safer with anyone else but me.”
“That’s flattering, but it’s also suffocating.”
She was right. I would suffocate her, then I would burn her, and suddenly I wasn’t sure if I wanted to risk it. She deserved somebody who wouldn’t break her with a touch, a look, or a sentence.
“He’s a good one,” I said, nodding toward the kitchen. “Dante.” I didn’t know why I said it, maybe to drown out all the reasons to have her.
She tucked her knees up, blanket tangling around her shins. “You don’t have to push me at him.”
“Not pushing,” I said, “Just saying. You could do worse.”
She looked at me then, really looked. Her eyes were pale green in the late afternoon light, ringed with a thin circle of brown that always made her look a little haunted. “I know what you’re doing,” she said. “You’re trying to be noble, like you’re some tragic hero. But it’s not necessary.”
I wanted to laugh, but it caught in my throat. “Trust me, hero isn’t a word anyone would ever use on me.”
