Page 103 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Slumping, I held my hands out as if offering something to Peter.

“What do you want, Peter?” I asked. “Why did you come here tonight?”

“I told you,” he said. “I want you to come home.”

“Why tonight?” I asked again. “We haven’t talked in…a long time.”

“I’m done with that shit, too,” he said, but he wasn’t trying to be crass. “Talk to me, goddamnit. Stop treating me like I’m the enemy when I don’t even know what I did.”

There is at least one moment in everyone’s life where they are presented with an opportunity to swallow their pride and own up to their own bullshit. Or they can double down. The second choice always leads to trouble…but it’s the easiest. Of course, I’d never taken the easy option regardless of what strife it might cause.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said, looking away. “Actually, I know a lot of things to say but I can’t put them into words.”

“Well, say something,” Peter grumbled. “Say one goddamn thing that matters for once. Don’t just—”

“I hated myself for being alive,” I said. “Because my family wasn’t. Specifically, I hated myself for having a good life. With you.”

Peter said nothing, so I shrugged.

“That’s something, Peter,” I said. “I didn’t know it then, but that was…that was something I was going through.”

Peter visibly swallowed, and it took him a few tries to get out what he wanted to say.

“Weren’t we happy, Enzo?” he asked. “Wasn’t our marriage happy?”

“No,” I said. “Well, you were happy. I wasn’t. Not those last few months.”

He closed his eyes.

“Is that my fault? Did I do that to you somehow? Was it our marriage?”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t allowed myself to be happy. For a long time, Peter. You ignoring my needs and, I don’t know, uh, brushing off my concerns, didn’t help. But, no. It wasn’t your fault. But I am glad that you were happy.”

When Peter’s eyes opened, a tear leaked from his right eye.

“I’d never been happier in my life,” he said angrily, though his voice didn’t match the heat of his words. “And I haven’t been happy since.”

“I’m sorry.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but I knew he wasn’t mocking me. He was frustrated, and I couldn’t blame him. I was frustrated with myself, too. Somewhere, deep inside of me, I knew that the majority of the blame was to be put on my shoulders. Peter was imperfect, but he was collateral damage in the tornado I’d created in my head to try and understand my life.

Motioning at the couch, he wobbled slightly. I nodded, so Peter sat down on the sofa with a grunt. His elbows went to his knees and his head went to his hands. He sat there, holding his head, covering his eyes with the palms of his hands, saying nothing. So, I shuffled over cautiously and eased myself down to sit on the sofa a few feet away from him. I didn’t know what else to say—not that night—so I let him have silence.

Finally, Peter sniffed heavily and drew in a ragged breath. When he lifted his head from his hands, his eyes were red. He looked around, as though suddenly aware of where he was, then his head turned so he could look at me.

“I like your sofa,” he said. “Good choice.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s new but it was—”

Peter waited.

“—on sale,” I smiled and looked away.

He chuckled softly. “My little money-conscious guy.”

I smiled. “You smell like a bar, Peter.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I shouldn’t have come over here. I guess. I mean, I’m glad I came over here. I’m done with all of this, Enzo.”