Page 101 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Peter’s bottom lip jutted out, and for a moment, I thought he might start crying. As quickly as his eyes turned sad, they turned angry.

“I’m taking you home, Enzo,” he said. “This has all been—whatever you needed it to be—but it’s time for you to come home.”

“I am home.”

“This is not your home.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t. Stop fucking saying that.”

“You shouldn’t have come here. Especially in your condition.”

“Then tell me to leave,” he shrugged, his body swaying.

I stared at him. Could I tell Peter to leave? Even if he wasn’t drunk and a danger to himself?

“Tell me to leave, Enzo,” Peter said, drawing out the last syllable of my name. “Tell me to leave.”

The ice machine in the freezer clicked, dumping fresh ice into the tray waiting for the cubes. Someone was walking down the hallway, coughing as they made their way to their apartment. Lights from all of the buildings in Minneapolis twinkled in the sky beyond the windows. And I had no idea what I wanted to say to Peter. I didn’t want to tell him to leave, though I had no idea why.

I wasn’t mad at Peter. I’d never truly been mad at Peter.

Things had gotten complicated. At least in my head, they were complicated. And I hadn’t had the tools to figure things out for myself. Especially when my brain was doing all it could to keep me going day after day, fighting against medication that fought against its efforts. As I stood there, staring at Peter, I realized that I still had no idea what had happened between us, or why I had felt that simply walking out was the best course of action.

I had no idea how to fix that, either.

“Peter—”

“I’m not leaving.”

I hadn’t been about to ask him to leave, but his statement made heat crawl up my neck.

“You’d leave if I told you to.”

Peter started to speak but stopped himself. It was as if he was going to argue, but even in his drunken state, the real Peter was still there, somewhere in his brain.

“I would,” he said, finally. “But I’d call you an asshole first.”

I squinted at him, half-angry, half knowing I’d deserved it. Kind of.

“You’re an asshole, Enzo,” he said, then lazily jabbed a finger in my direction. “That’s what you are. Asshole.”

“And you’re perfect?” I snapped before I knew I would say anything.

“Hell no,” he barked. “But I haven’t been giving you the silent treatment, have I?”

“Maybe you weren’t quiet,” I bellowed, not caring if any neighbors heard, “but you weren’t talking to me!”

Peter’s head cocked to the side.

“Who talks about anything important with the window dressing, Peter?” I asked, stepping up to him. “Give it time, Enzo. You’ll figure things out. Who cares if you have a job now? You will one day! We’ll get through this. Don’t worry! You had a lot to say, Peter. But you didn’t give a shit what I thought most of the time.”

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“Is it not?” I asked. “How long after I got off the plane was it before you stopped asking for my help in making decisions? Before you stopped asking how I felt? Or what I needed out of our marriage?”

“That is not—”