If You Only Knew(102)

“It’s really your gutter. I just rent it.”

“I’ll clean up the kitchen if you forgive me. And also rub your feet.”

“Done. I can’t believe your wife left you.”

The words are out of my mouth before I think about them. Leo’s expression freezes.

However, the words have been spoken, so...

“Why did she, anyway?” I ask as gently as I can. “You know all my dirty laundry. You can tell me yours.”

He lowers his gaze to the floor. Rubs his hand over the top of his head. The clock on the mantel ticks.

Then he takes a deep breath and says, “You know what, Jenny? We’re not gonna talk about that, because we don’t have that kind of relationship, and we’re not going to. I’m sorry, but I have certain...limitations. And true intimacy is probably one of them.”

My throat tightens. “Wow, Dr. Phil. That’s very profound.”

He doesn’t smile.

If I were smart, I’d break up with him right now. Listen, Leo, you’re a great guy, but we want different things. I wish you only the best, but I want a family. I want true intimacy. I want someone to love me.

The clock chimes the half hour.

“A clean kitchen and a foot rub, huh?” I hear myself say. “What woman could resist that?”

His smile is my reward. After all, a more chipper voice says in my head, he’s practically living with you. What he says and what he does are different things. He’ll come around.

I recognize this is not necessarily true, so I preach it all the harder.

As I said, I’m pretty stupid about men.

* * *

A few nights later, I get home a little late. One of my brides came up from the city to have dinner and show me her wedding album; she was basically the perfect client, letting me make her whatever I thought suited her, and the result was a glorious mermaid dress that’s gotten me four new clients. This happens a lot; my brides and I become friends. There’s something very intimate about making a dress for the big day; it’s like a window into the personalities of the players involved. In Jo’s case, the personality is lovely, and I hug her as we part.

“Hey, I didn’t even ask,” she says. “Are you seeing someone?”

I hesitate, then answer. “I am, actually.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “I get invited to the wedding,” is all she says, then blows me a kiss and gets into her car.

It’s an awfully nice thought. And Leo, despite his words, is acting like the world’s best boyfriend.

I believe I shall pop in on him and rock his world. The sun has just set, and the sky is a Maxfield Parrish–blue. What could be more romantic?

But when I pull up in front of our house, I see a note taped to the courtyard gate.

My heart is already sinking as I get out of the car.

Lessons are canceled for today due to an emergency.

Oh, God. I pull out my phone—there are no new messages or texts—and hit his number. It goes right to voice mail. “Leo, it’s me. I’m at home, and I saw the sign. Call me right away, okay?”

Maybe he left me a note. I run up to my door, where there’s nothing, and then dash inside and look around. No note anywhere a person might ordinarily leave a note, not by the phone, on the counter or table, on the fridge. Nothing.

I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Why didn’t he call me? Did his mom take a turn for the worse? Or did he get hurt somehow, maybe trying to use power tools again, or a car accident, or—

But wait. There’s his car, parked just a few spaces down from mine. I’ve only seen him drive it once or twice, but that’s his car.

I go back down into the courtyard and knock. There’s no answer. I try the door. It’s locked, but I have a key.

My heart is shuddering with dread.

I open the door and flip the kitchen light on. We spend much more time at my place than his. As usual, the house is immaculate, soulless as an IKEA showroom.

I go into the living room and turn on a light there, then leap back with a shriek.

“Leo! Jesus, you scared me.”

He squints at me.

Oh, dear. That’s a good-size glass in his hand, and the liquid is clear. I’m betting it’s not water. A bottle of Grey Goose on the coffee table confirms my Sherlockian suspicion.

“You okay, h— buddy?” I almost say honey, but I’m a little afraid to, for some reason.

“Jenny. I’d like to be alone,” he says, enunciating carefully.

He’s in the exact middle of the couch, and in this impersonal living room, he looks like a prop, sitting with his back straight, like he doesn’t quite know how to sit anymore.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Loki died.”

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry, Leo.” I sit next to him and put my hand on his leg. He takes another sip of his drink.

“Well. He was old, as you so kindly pointed out.”

I bite my lip. “I’m sorry. You... He had a good life.”

“Did he, Jenny? Do you really know?”

That’s a weird question. I take my hand off his leg. “I know you loved him and took really good care of him,” I say.

“That is true. Yes.”

“How old was he?” I ask.

“Fifteen.”