Repeat(10)

“Yeah.”

“I mean, forgetting your life is bad enough. But not being able to rebuild . . .”

He sets his ankle on the opposite knee, getting comfortable. “You were going to tell me the other reasons why you stopped texting me questions.”

“No, I wasn’t. But since you’re asking, why not.” I half smile. “The information I get from Frances doesn’t feel totally reliable. I feel like it’s influenced by her personal beliefs and biases.”

“Like her not telling you about me?”

“Exactly,” I say. “We were almost constantly together for the last year or so and she never even mentioned your name. She says she was protecting me and would have told me eventually.”

He thinks it over. “Are you worried about my biases?”

I shuffle around a little, getting comfortable. Trying not to think about how this is the bed where our bodies used to meet in all the ways. Or at least I assume so. “Who I am, the person I become, that’s on me. But I don’t need anyone messing around with what’s left of my head. You said you’re still angry at me. I mean, you obviously are, and that has to affect how you see things, what you tell me.”

“I guess so, yeah.” He nods. “But it’s not new.”

“What’s not new?”

“You being suspicious of me. It might even be said that it turned out to be something of a defining feature of our relationship.”

I wonder if maybe I am a suspicious person. Suspicious of him. Of Frances. Of everyone. There was a moment when I was walking to the café the other day when I could have sworn someone was following me. But it was nothing. “Is this something we can talk about?”

“Why don’t you just start from scratch?” he asks. “I don’t think anyone can completely keep their own feelings and experiences out of what they tell you. People just don’t work that way. But do you really need all of the history to start moving forward?”

“I don’t know.”

On the floor, Gordon farts, and we both wrinkle our noses. Dog farts are gross. Another definite.

“If you want, I’ll still answer your questions,” says Ed.

“But only some questions . . .”

He frowns, taking his time to respond. “I don’t hate you, all right? It just hasn’t been that long, and some of the stuff you’re asking about is still a little raw.”

“Understandable.”

Outside, a bird calls and a car drives past. Life goes on for billions of people regardless of what’s happening here and now for me. It’s a lot to get my head around. Especially with the lingering headache.

The ceiling in Ed’s bedroom is as high as the one out in the living area. I like the feeling of space, the scent of him on the sheets. Laundry detergent, a trace of cologne, and him. For some reason, it’s comforting.

“Who do you think I am?” I ask, still holding the thawing bag to my face. My fingers have long since gone numb from the cold. “How would you describe me?”

“You’re Clementine Johns. Twenty-five years old. Work in a bank. You’re kind, nervous sometimes, tend to overthink shit and worry about people’s opinions. Meaning you don’t always let others know what’s on your mind.” He sets his foot back on the floor, leaning his elbows on his thighs. “You’re good with figures and you like reading, Italian food, and hanging out with friends. Not that you had a lot.”

“Why is that, exactly?”

“The thing was, you dropped out of college to look after your mother for two years when she was sick. Watching her die in so much pain . . . well, it’d be hard on anyone,” he explains. “Anyway, you leaving college to take care of your mom meant you lost touch with most of your initial college friends. Then you didn’t necessarily have a lot in common with the younger college kids when you went back, or even people your own age. Or that’s how you explained it to me. I think in the year or two after your mom died you were pretty reserved. Doesn’t make it easy to meet people. After we started seeing each other, you grew close to some of my friends, but after the breakup . . .”

“Right.” This makes more sense now, the lack of people in my life.

“Ah, what else?” He makes a small humming sound. A thinking noise. “Things have to be tidy; you were always picking stuff up and making sure the dishes were done. Guess you’re kind of restless like that. Let’s see, you snore after you’ve had a few drinks and even though you like violets, you’re useless at keeping the plant alive. Absolutely hopeless. Every time you’d bring another one home, I’d honestly just feel bad for the poor thing.”

“Ha,” I said, closing my eyes against the glare of daylight. “Some of that sounds like me, but not all of it.”

“So you’re saltier now and you like different things. People change.”

“Guess so,” I say. “Can I ask something about you?”

His lips thinned.

“Not about us,” I assure him. “Just about you.”

“All right.”

“When did you start drawing?”

“Can’t remember a time when I wasn’t,” he says with a smile. It takes him from attractive to rocketing into outer space. It’s just as well I’m lying down or I might actually go weak in the knees. The man is heavenly. “I always had pencils and paper. Didn’t matter, I’d put my art on anything. Eventually, Mom and Dad gave up on trying to stop me from drawing on walls, just restricted me to the ones in my bedroom. Once a year I’d repaint and start all over again.”