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"Okay."

"I'm under contract on Dutch's property, too, as you know. The first payment's due November first."

"Okay. When, Carson?"

"After shipping."

"When after shipping?"

A long breath, fifteen hundred miles of it. "I can't give you a day right now. I don't want to give you a day and miss it."

Sir, you've already done that and didn't even have the balls to acknowledge it. What he should have said is that he doesn't want to do that again. I look out at the lot. The heat's cooled considerably, and everything's gone gray and gold.

"It's probably best if you don't," I say.

"Mackie."

"I'm serious, Carson. We were both delusional to even play house for a few weeks. We both know we have separate lives on opposite sides of the country. I can’t sit here wondering when you’re coming back. It’s too much.”

The line goes quiet, and then he clears his throat. "Okay."

And there it is. He's not working a problem with me. He's telling me what he's already decided and leaving me to finish the sentence.

"I have never asked you for one thing." My voice comes out even, which surprises me considering how fast my heart is racing. "Not one, in eight months. Not in February, not in April. Not on the magnesium when I couldn't feel my own hands." I stop.

"Mackie."

"Never mind. It's fine."

"Don't."

"We should probably get an attorney and set a schedule, a real one, on paper. You send whatever you want to send, and we keep everything clean."

"Mackie. Wait."

That's as close to please as he's ever come with me. I keep going, because if I stop for one second he'll fix it, and say the thing, and I'll believe him again and end up broken in two.

"No, I'm done waiting," I say.

I'd rather be the one who ends it than wait around to find out how much of his life I cost him. I end the call and toss the phone on the side table. I look at the monitor. Both of them are asleep in there, and there is a sadness about that I can’t put into words.

The shaking starts in my hands and works up into my shoulders. I stand at the rail and let it, because there's no fixing it. When they're steady, I pick up the monitor and go inside. Mom still isn’t home, so I go straight back to my room to peek in on them. They're exactly where the monitor shows them.

Graham has his face turned to the side. I lay two fingers on his chest and feel it rise. Hildie's pink hat has slipped half off, and I fix it. Luckily, she doesn't stir.

I walk back into the kitchen. The pump parts are in the sink. Two flanges, two valves, the little white membranes, the bottles. They need washing, so I wash them. Hot water, soap on the brush, the brush around the inside of each flange once and then again. Rinse.

I hold every piece up to the light over the sink and check it, the way Carson checked every buckle on both car seats in that store in July. I lay them on the dish towel in a row, the flanges and the valves and the membranes flat so they don't curl.

The front door opens, and her keys go into the dish. Mom comes into the kitchen. She looks at me at the sink, one look from top to bottom.

She doesn't ask, setting her bag on the counter before grabbing the kettle off the stove and carrying it to the tap.

"You want tea?"

"No, thanks."

"I'm making it anyway."