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“It’s clearly a brush-off,” I say as I position an address label on a thick envelope and hand it off to Ivy from my place at the kitchen table.
“I don’t know,” Ivy says, sliding an announcement into the envelope. “I don’t usually take the time to text a brush-off from my brother’s hospital room at three in the morning.”
Dave—leg three of our triangular Wedding Announcement Assembly Circuit and Crisis Support Group—agrees as he takes the envelope, wets the adhesive with a sponge, and seals the flap shut. “It’s not a brush-off. He’s a guy. If he responded, he’s interested. If he wanted to get rid of you, he’d ghost you.”
“Ghosting sucks,” I say, thumping my fist down on the current label.
Dave stops what he’s doing and catches Ivy’s eye. “Do you think this activity might be contributing to Grace’s negativity, or is it just trip-lag?”
Ivy chuckles. “Definitely not this. Nothing’s more fun than marrying off another roommate.”
“There is nothing about either of you that I like,” I say. I don’t mean it. They’ll disappear into the Newlywed Abyss in less than a month, and then I’ll have no one to hang out with.
Again.
For the moment, I’m embracing my role as wedding assistant and glorified third wheel.
“What I meant,” Dave says, ignoring my salt, “is that you asked him something, and he answered it. Bare minimum, yes, but he gave you what you asked for. Maybe he doesn’t like texting.”
“But ‘Thanks for asking’? That’s a total brush-off!”
“What makes that a brush-off instead of an actual thank-you?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Seriously? You have to ask?”
“She has a point,” Ivy says. “The way it’s worded kind of sounds like he’s over and out.”
“So howshouldhe have responded, if he wanted to keep it going?” Dave punctuates his question by slapping a finished envelope onto the growing pile.
“I don’t know,” Ivy says. “Maybe ask about her drive home? How the rest of the trip went?”
Dave huffs. “He’s at the hospital with his critically injured brother. Not to mention it was three in the morning.”
“True, but considering their history...”
“He’s a math guy, right?” Dave asks me.
“Accountant.”
He smiles as if that proves his point. “Notoriously bad with words.”
“Valid,” Ivy says.
“Stereotype.” I shake my head at her flip-flopping. “Which side are you arguing? I can’t keep track.”
“I’m exploring all options. Besides, youknowhe doesn’t like to talk, especially about himself.”
Dave can’t help but throw in another two cents. “I still say you’re expecting too much from someone in his situation. What about his apology? That doesn’t sound like someone who wants to avoid you at all costs.”
“Guilt,” I say. “He was mending fences.”
“See?” Ivy says. “Good fences make good neighbors. He wants to be friends, at least.”
I disagree. “Good fences keep people out.” As much as I’ve told Ivy about Noah—and that’s most of it—she still doesn’t comprehend how closed-off he is. “Trust me. He doesn’t want people climbing his fence or even looking through. I’m not texting back,” I say.
“But—” Ivy starts.
I hold up one hand to stop them both. “Look, I reached out. I let him know I was worried about him, and he responded in a way that says, clearly, ‘Nice of you to ask. My brother’s going to be fine. Peace out.’ I have to respect that boundary.”
