"You never asked."
Fair.
He picks up his pen. The conversation is apparently over. Then he says, "Kid looks better."
"Hale?"
"Loud one with the hair."
"That's most of them."
"The young loud one."
"Yes."
"You teaching him?"
"Trying."
Gerald nods. "Good."
The word lands differently from Callahan's nod. Callahan's good means job done. Gerald's good means person noticed.
I stand there too long.
"Morning," I say finally.
Gerald smiles into his crossword. "Morning."
That night, I go to Caleb's apartment because I want to.
Not because the hip is bad, though it is. Not because Dana said something that knocked a wall loose. Not because the silence drove me out of my kitchen. I go because this is what people do when they are in a relationship and the relationship has begun to become normal.
Normal is an aggressive word.
It has takeout containers and spare toothbrushes and Caleb texting me, Do you need dinner? and me replying No, then arriving with dumplings because no apparently now means I do not know how to answer that question honestly.
He opens the door and looks at the bag in my hand.
"You said no dinner."
"I lied."
"Growth."
"Don't make a speech about it."
"I had a toast prepared."
We eat on the couch. The game is on. The same couch. The same coffee table. The rice containers remain unorganized for eight full minutes before Caleb moves one and pretends he needed space for his drink.
After dinner, he takes my plate. I catch his wrist before he can stand.
He looks down at my hand, then at me.
"Leave it," I say.
"The plate?"
