Page 79 of Haunted

“Wow. No. I explicitly used a different name, and I think only a handful of people from Fairhaven ever reached out to me. And to whatever you’re implying, I’d say grief doesn’t come with a required address.”

“Good. Now they push. They say the channel proves it—that you built a whole life out of showing strangers only the parts of India that you’ve carefully edited.”

His jaw tightens, barely. “I don’t hear a question in that. But I’ll engage with this. All places that you show on a travel show are carefully edited. If your cousin is coming to town, you don’t get to show him the Walmart or Jefferson Parkway or the power plant. You show him the downtown. The nice parts.”

“And what about you?” I say. “You’ve been doing this for about a decade. Is it still fun?”

“Sure, or else I wouldn’t do it.”

“Is it always fun, or do you think that there is something hollow about advocating for a lifestyle of permanent impermanence?”

I can see he’s starting to get irritated. “All things are permanent impermanence. That is the basis of several major religions.”

“That’s a cop-out. Why did you choose India and why couldn’t you have waited for me to go with you?”

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

“I went because it was cheap and far away,” he says quietly. “I went to India, learned to speak Hindi, and figured I could make money by telling people about my experiences. And to answer your question, you know exactly why I couldn’t wait for you. This is way too personal. Students don’t give a damn about this.”

“I want you to be prepared. Sometimes you have to train past the hurt.”

“How often were you in combat?” he asks. His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it worse.

“Enough.”

“And how much therapy did the Corps give you after that?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Honey, it’s been about you for the last ten minutes. You stopped being a student asking questions and started being a man I hurt a lot, who’s asking me questions I can’t answer without hurting him more.”

“I’m not hurt!” I shout.

“Then you’re afraid of losing control of this situation, and you’re doing everything to make sure you don’t feel like that. Does that land better, Lance?”

I open my mouth and nothing comes out of it, because he’s right.

“I’m not trying to come at you,” I say.

“I know you’re not. I think a bit of your military training influenced your style there.”

“All I want is to make sure you’re prepared for this.”

“I know. And I appreciate it. But I need you to hear me when I say: I’m never going to be yours to command. When you were learning to obey at all costs, I was doing the exact opposite, and it suited me fine. So whatever you’re trying to do right now, I want you to stop.”

The apartment is very quiet. I can hear the fridge humming. Through the window, the campus is golden with late-afternoon light, and people are walking dogs and pushing strollers and living lives that don’t involve sitting across from the person you love most while they calmly explain that you’re broken.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be aware.” He stands and comes around the table and puts his arms around me from behind. I feel his chin on the top of my head. “You’re going to have to unlearn some of that if this is going to work.”

“I know.”

“And I think you should talk to someone. Not me. Someone trained.”

“Hard copy,” I say. “I hear you. I’ll think about it, I promise.” And then, because it won’t sit down in me: “I just can’t bear the thought of you out there on your own, unprotected, in that goddamn country, without me. What if something had happened to you?”

“It did and I was fine,” he says.