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The silent night is his only reply.
“I’m struggling,” admits Kyle, eyes upon the thousands of tiny, faraway suns. “I know I made a promise, but I can’t let go of the guilt, even decades later. I ended them. My family. Kaleb and his beautiful violin talent that the world will never hear. My dad and his idiosyncrasies and sports magazines. My mom and her book club and her criticisms and crushing expectations. Doesn’t even matter what I thought of them. The point is, they were human beings with hopes and dreams. I’m sure even my mom was sweet when she was a little girl, wondering what she’d be like someday as a grandma … I took that dream away.” He places his palm on the road next to him, cold to the touch. “I ended them. How can I ever forgive myself? Even in a hundred years?” He shuts his eyes. “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t believe in forgiveness. Or apologies. Or anything at all.”
“My life has no meaning anymore,” says Kyle as he walks on the narrow curb of a bending road, one foot in front of the next, perfectly balanced. “Who am I helping? Who am I living for? More importantly, who fucking cares?”
He stops and lifts his hand, covering the moon with his thumb. “You would’ve liked this town, had you stuck around a little longer.” Kyle drops his hand. “You selfish fucking prick.”
When he reaches his neighborhood on the edge of town, he finds the same somber cat sitting on his front yard. Houses around here have yards covered entirely in pebbles and sand, little grass in sight. The daylight hours bring incorrigible heat from the surrounding Arizona desert, but at night, the air feels dry, crisp, which Kyle prefers. Easier to read his surroundings. Easier to sense, to listen, to breathe. Not that he’s had much around here to sense lately. Or threatening things to listen for.
Or reasons to breathe.
Kyle lets himself into his little house on the corner, lets the door stay open without a care, drops onto his couch with a huff. It’s the only piece of furniture in the room, except for an old upright piano, out of tune. Everything is dark, but he can see the cat as she saunters inside and plants herself by the wall on the other side of the room next to the kitchen. Her big, wary eyes lock upon him. The room is silent. Kyle closes his eyes.
Hours later, Kyle stirs upon picking up the distinct odor of burning flesh. He peers down. A stripe of morning sunlight has found its way through a slit in the window curtains behind him.
It is slicing across Kyle’s forearm like a searing hot knife.
He pulls himself out of harm’s way with an annoyed grunt, then settles on the opposite side of the couch to resume his rest. The scorched aroma continues to hang in the air, thick and terrible. The cat has since relocated to the piano bench, where she lifts her head, observes Kyle readjusting on the couch, then lowers her chin back to her paws.
It’s nightfall again. Kyle’s up and about in the kitchen. He is determined to be happy, forces out a cheery tone. “Oh, you want a sandwich?” he asks an imaginary Tristan. “What do you want on it?” He imagines hearing a reply. “A fair choice,” Kyle then says, “same for me, but I can do without that tone of yours. Yes, you heard me, Mister Sassy.” He pulls out a can of tuna. The cat circles his feet at once, rubbing all over his lower legs, tail writhing impatiently. “Little Lion wants some, too. Hey, hey, protest all you want,” says Kyle, wagging his fork in the air at nothing, “but you’re the one who always wanted a cat, this is the one who turned up at my door, and she’s hungry.”
Kyle sets the bowl on the floor. The cat sinks her teeth into the tuna, noisily feasting.
Kyle lowers himself to the tiles next to her, a tuna sandwich in hand. He takes a bite and grimaces. “I don’t get the appeal,” he says to her. “Tastes like nothing.” When he reaches to pet her, she recoils from him, ears flattening. “Maybe next time,” he sighs, giving up. She resumes her meal. Kyle, too.
Before leaving the house for work, Kyle stops at the dining room table, which he hasn’t touched in months. Sitting in its center is a ring—a pinky ring. It rests upon a folded-up letter.
The two items have sat there like a centerpiece for a while.
For twenty-three and a half weeks, in fact, since the day Kyle started calling this house and this town his home.
Kyle stares at that ring, long and hard.
“Mom,” he says. “Dad,” he says. “Kaleb.”
It’s a nightly ritual, to say their names aloud, one at a time.
