Page 102 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“You have a job.” I stopped him. “A great job. You had a husband. A house.”

“We had—have—a house.”

“Your life was great. So, it never occurred to you that maybe…maybe…I was struggling.”

Peter stared at me.

“I was struggling every day and all I got from you was ‘wait’ and ‘it will work out’ and ‘don’t worry’ and shit that didn’t take my feelings into consideration, Peter. Maybe I wasn’t talking—but you weren’t asking, either.”

“That is so unfair, Enzo,” Peter was obviously still drunk, but he seemed a bit soberer. “You’re a goddamn adult. If something is wrong, I expect that you’ll tell me. Not just shut me out and not say a word. Not expect me to read your mind. Give me a goddamn clue.”

“You’ll go to hell for that,” I snapped.

“You are so fucking insufferable,” he growled.

I shrugged.

“Get your things,” he said, reaching for my arm. “We’re going home.”

Snatching my arm away, I stepped back.

“This—all of this—is my things, Peter,” I said. “All of this shit. It’s mine. My life isn’t so small anymore that I can throw some clothes and a toothbrush in a bag and move. I’ve made a life here. This couch? That’s mine. That television? It’s mine. The pots, pans, bed, desk—the goddamn half-empty bottle of soy sauce in the refrigerator—is all mine. So, I can’t just grab my things and follow your orders, can I?”

“Where is this anger coming from?” Peter asked. “It’s like you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Peter,” I snapped.

“I’ve put up with this shit—whatever it is you’re going through, not talking to me, not answering texts, refusing to have a discussion—for far too long, Enzo,” he said, stumbling slightly. “And I’m done with it. You’re coming home.”

“I’m not going to do shit,” I tilted my head back and forth sassily with each word.

Peter, his face starting to turn red, stepped up, as if to argue, then he stopped. He took a breath, turned his head to the side, and grinned. Turning further so that I couldn’t see his face, I could tell he was doing his best to hide his widening smile. Licking my lips, I did my best not to smile along with him. Our argument had turned ridiculous. Honestly, I wasn’t even certain what we were arguing about.

Of course, there was the dispute about whether or not I’d leave right then to go back home with Peter. That was obviously something that was causing friction. However, I had no idea why Peter had decided on that night—after so long—to give up on waiting for me to make the first move. Why he had decided that night that he was done giving me my space? I didn’t know why that night was the night he decided we should have it out.

“I’m not going to do shit,” Peter mumbled.

He chuckled. I licked my teeth again, willing myself to stay steely-faced.

“You’ve changed, Enzo,” he said.

“So what?” I snarled. “I can’t be perfect for you, so—”

He sighed. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. I didn’t mean it was bad.”

Peter and I found ourselves standing there, an arm’s length away from each other, simply staring into each other’s eyes. What did we really have to say? There was plenty. But where did we start? After so long apart, not communicating, how did we begin again? Did we both want to begin again? There was so much, how did we do that?

In my heart of hearts, I realized that even before Peter showed up on my doorstep, I would eventually want to talk things out with Peter. I knew our story wasn’t over. One day, I would figure myself out—the storm I’d created in my head—and talk to him about it. Help him understand so that he would understand what I needed. After so long, how to do that had gotten hazier. With Peter standing before me, I was even fuzzier.

All I could focus on was the fact that we were in the same room after such a long time.

I’d missed him. Somewhere along the way, I’d convinced myself to believe otherwise. However, if you think you don’t miss someone, but the moment you see them again your heart starts to ache, you’re simply full of shit.

“You seem more confident,” he swayed on his feet. “You’re…not meek.”

“I’ve never been meek,” I said gently so he would know I wasn’t starting another argument. “I’ve been terrified.”

“There is a difference,” he said, his head nodding once.