He looks away from me, like he’s considering heading for the door and leaving. Saying good night and vanishing into the storm. And although I’m curious exactly what kind of accident, I don’t press it any further. I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want him to leave, even though our conversation feels tightened along the edges, tugged and constrained because he’s holding things in. I’m also not quite ready for this night to be over. There are things I like about him—no, that’s not right. It’s not him exactly. It’s me. I like how I feel standing beside him. Eased by his
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