Page 43

Not at the end of a sentence. Not after I've fixed it or answered it or made it safe. In the middle of the fear, before he knows what I'm going to say, before there's any net to fall into. His voice not steady. His eyes bright. Every wall down.

I feel it land. In my chest, in my hands, somewhere behind my ribs where I have been holding this for months without knowing I was holding it. Something releases. Something I didn't know was clenched.

The apartment is very still.

I look at him. At Jan, who has spent thirty years not saying things. Who makes coffee and puts tea in the third drawer and holds on in the dark and shows instead of says. Who has just chosen, in his own hallway with his voice unsteady and the fear still in his face, to say the thing anyway.

I close the distance between us.

I take his face in both hands.

"I love you," I say. "I have loved you since somewhere over Singapore. Probably before that."

Something breaks open in his face. Not dramatically — quietly, the quiet of something held too long finally releasing. He looks like himself, more completely than I have ever seen him.

"And what you have to offer me…” My voice does something and I don't stop. "Jan. You are the reason I know what I actually want. Not the general shape of a life. You, specifically. The tea in the third drawer. The way you look at the canal in the morning. The way you said it was adequate on that bridge and I stood there and thought: this is it. This is the whole thing." I look at him. "That is what you offer me. You. That's everything." I look at him steadily. "And children…if we decide we want them, we'll find our way to them together. I don't want some hypothetical easier life instead of you. I want our life."

He looks at me for a long moment.

"I didn't know if you'd say it back," he says quietly.

"I know," I say. "That's why it mattered that you said it first."

He breathes.

"I have never needed anyone like this," he says. "It terrifies me."

"Let me be here anyway," I say.

He looks at me. Then he nods. Once.

I pull him in. He goes, properly, both arms around me, holding on the way he holds on when it is very late and he thinks I am asleep and doesn't know I can feel it.

"Okay," he says. Into my neck.

"Okay," I say.

Jan leans his head against my chest. I put my arms around him and hold him there.

We stand like that for a moment — just the two of us and the hallway and his head against my chest and the canal outside. Then he speaks, quietly, into the fabric of my shirt.

"I'm sorry I left," he says.

"Don't be."

"I panicked."

"I know." I put my hand on the back of his neck, feeling him exhale at the touch. "I panicked too."

He makes a sound that is almost a laugh. "You were panicking?"

"I called. I texted three times. I spent the entire day losing my mind."

"I know." A pause. His arms tighten slightly around me. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I say again. I press my mouth to the top of his head. "Just… stay. Stay right here."

He stays.