Page 71 of Love Again

The evening is suddenly cut short, and I don’t get a chance to say goodbye to Nic or Jackson or Bryce. Devon wants to leave, so we do.

We walk silently across the street and get to her apartment. Nothing I could say or do would make any of this better.

“At least let me stay with you,” I say.

But she shakes her head, and I can tell she’s about to cry. She doesn’t really want to discuss anything. She needs to process.

I have to trust the process—she always told me that. I believed her until she left.

It seems risky to leave.

Trust the process.

I drive back to Keller’s, up the mountain, the headlights catching on a scurrying possum and then a raccoon, their eyes tiny, flashing mirrors. I pull in at my brother’s home, and I have to say, the house looks cheerful. It’s such a tiny place and he’s such a big guy that it’s funny, but I can see him in the window, washing dishes. Then they will air dry.

We’re never allowed to dry anything in the house. He says it’s unsanitary.

I walk in, and he must instantly smell the beer on my breath.

“What the hell!”

“You don’t need to shout, Keller,” I say. “This big-brother-little-brother thing needs to stop. I’m twenty-seven.”

For such a large man to suddenly look chagrined is almost comical. He demurs and goes back to the dishes. I watch him work. He looks great for a six-foot-four guy in his late forties. The firehouse has a nice gym and he works out regularly. But his shoulders are curved, and I know me barking at him isn’t right. He’s looking out for my health.

I come clean. “Devon told her family tonight that we’re married.”

“Oh, fuuuck, bro.” He stops and flings a dish towel over his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“Do you want a beer?”

“No, I had one. That’s all I should probably have. I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted.”

“Devon called here about five minutes ago, probably right after you left, and said you hadn’t had dinner.”

“What?”

“So I made you this.”

Keller sets a potholder on the table and opens the oven door. Then he sets down a very large plate with homemade french fries and a hamburger that’s got to be at least eight inches high, with a fancy toothpick and umbrella holding it all together. He sets out a dainty glass condiment jar with a spoon in it to showcase his homemade ketchup.

“Thanks. I’m so tired I’m not even sure I can eat.”

“Okay. You’re going to miss a mushroom, onion, avocado burger with siracha mayo.”

My stomach rumbles.

I grab a paper towel from the roll in the middle of the table. “Let’s do this.”

Keller sits down across from me. “Do you want to,” he trails off, picking some lint off his pants. “Do you want to unpack it?”

This is the word he used when our mother died. “Unpack.” He and Devon could never be in the same room together and discuss anything of the heart. If he thinks I’m closed, he would find Devon a human vault with a giant padlock. He always wants to talk about everything—his feelings, my feelings, the feelings he thinks I’m feeling.

My brother drives me crazy sometimes.

“No. I’m fine. I . . . thank you for the meal. It’s delicious.”