Page 100 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Peter snatched my hand into both of his before I could pull it away.

“My husband cares about me!” he said sarcastically, batting his eyes at me. “Who would have thought such a thing?”

He held my hand in his as though it was precious, staring into my eyes like a baby deer.

“Don’t be a jackass,” I said.

Snorting, he gripped my hand tighter, as though afraid I would yank it away.

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” he said. “At least you knew where I was.”

“You knew where I was,” I said gruffly. “I’ve told you in our texts.”

“You’ve parceled out information like you were protecting government secrets,” Peter spat. “Well, I’m sick of it. I’m here to bring you home.”

I yanked my hand out of his grasp.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said. “You’re drunk, Peter. You shouldn’t have gone anywhere in your condition.”

“I know!” He groaned dramatically and leaned toward me. “I could’ve gotten hurt. So tragic. You’d have no marriage to neglect. No husband to torture. Poor Enzo. Whatever would you have done then?”

I waved a hand between our faces. “What have you been drinking, Peter? Gasoline?”

“Whiskey.”

He burped.

It didn’t help the smell.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I repeated. “I can’t think of anything less safe right now.”

Peter opened his mouth, as if to argue, or say something sarcastic, but then he stopped, his eyes darting around. It had dawned on him that he was inside my apartment for the first time. Since I had walked out of our shared home with little more than a suitcase, we hadn’t seen each other in person. We’d barely had a single conversation that was more than a few sentences. We certainly hadn’t stepped inside each other’s homes.

Peter gave a low whistle as he spun slowly in place, unsteady on his feet. The compulsion to reach out and steady him rose in my gut, but I ignored it. Touching him more than necessary would only send the wrong message. Though I didn’t know what the wrong message was, actually.

“Look at you,” Peter said. “You’re moving up in the world. Husband.”

Peter was facing away, staring at the wall of windows that looked out over Minneapolis and the night skyline. It was impressive and beautiful. Even I couldn’t argue that. But my apartment, for its size and trappings, was relatively humble, all things considered. It was nothing like Peter’s home.

“It’s just an apartment,” I said. “The view is nice.”

“I should say so,” Peter said, stumbling towards the windows.

Tripping over his feet, Peter seemed as though he would tumble across the living and fall through the glass. His body would plummet to the street below. Scared out of my mind, I raced forward and grabbed a handful of the back of his shirt, walking with him as he made his way to the windows. He didn’t even notice that I was holding onto him. That’s how drunk he was.

“I bet you could see the house from here,” Peter whistled again as he stood a foot away from the windows. “Our house.”

I said nothing.

“You know,” Peter asked, “our home where we live together and we’re husbands and you didn’t walk out without saying a word or giving me any idea what the fuck was wrong? That place?”

Sighing, I said, “What are you doing here, Peter? Really?”

He spun around, ripping his shirt from my grip, and faced me.

“I’m here to bring you home.”

“You know I’m not leaving here with you,” I slowly shook my head. “You knew that before you got here. You’re drunk, not dumb. You’ve never been dumb. So, what are you doing here?”