"Then don't get one."
"I don't want to coach."
"Then don't coach."
"I don't want to talk on TV."
"Please don't."
That gets a real almost-smile.
"I don't know what I want," he says.
"Then we can start there."
"We?"
The word is quiet.
I should be careful. I am careful. But careful does not have to mean absent.
"If you want," I say.
He looks at me for a long time.
The game on TV goes to commercial. Someone tries to sell a truck by driving it through mud. The apartment smells like takeout and clementines. Outside, traffic moves down the street in soft passes of light.
"Everyone tells me what to do," Nolan says again.
"I'm not everyone."
His mouth opens. Closes.
I reach for his hand. Slowly enough that he can refuse. He does not.
"I'm the person who's going to be here while you figure it out," I say.
The second time is steadier.
Nolan looks at our hands.
"That's not a plan," he says.
"No."
"You like plans."
"Yes."
"This will bother you."
"Almost constantly."
His thumb moves against mine. Small. Intentional.
"Good," he says.
I laugh, surprised.
