Page 162 of Roadrunner

Sleep had become a rumor I used to believe in.

“I don’t remember this,” I said.

Della set a glass of water in front of me like it was medicine and not manners.

“Don’t remember what.”

“Arthur.” I pressed the heel of my hand into the place under my ribs that had been humming since dawn. “I don’t remember being like this. Short. Tired. Mad at the thermostat. Mad at the sound of the thermostat.”

“You were twenty-two and running on spite and a promise,” Della said. “Spite’s a better painkiller than people admit.”

I laughed once.

It came out thin.

“I’m snapping at Riley for existing in a doorway,” I said. “Arthur asked if we had more cereal and I heard myself answer like he’d asked me to build him a house. Then I cried in the pantry.”

“Which pantry.”

“Mine.”

“Good,” she said. “Crying in a stranger’s pantry is how you know it’s gone too far.”

She sat.

Not across from me.

Beside me, the way she did when the thing wasn’t going to be solved by a table’s worth of distance.

“This one you get to feel,” she said. “That’s the difference. Last time you were busy making a life out of a decision. This time the life is already here and your body’s just catching up to the news.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“You’re growing a person,” Della said. “They’re not known for their consideration.”

“I’m mean.”

“You’re hot and your back hurts and you haven’t slept,” she said. “That’s not a personality. That’s weather.”

I stared at the water.

The ice had already given up.

“What if I miss it,” I said. “The good part. What if I spend nine months being a person I don’t like and then she’s here and I’ve already used up the patience.”

Della’s mouth did that almost-smile she reserved for foolishness she loved.

“You won’t miss it,” she said. “You’ll be in it. That’s messier. It’s also the only way it actually happens.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Wasn’t trying to comfort you.” She pushed the glass an inch closer. “I was trying to get you off the mountain you climbed in the parking lot. Drink the water. Eat what I put in front of you. Go home and tell Riley to take the boy for an hour so you can lie down in a room that isn’t performing anything.”

“And the snapping.”

“Apologize when it’s the doorway,” she said. “Don’t apologize for the heat. He knew what he was signing up for. He’s seen a motorcycle overheat. Same principle. Don’t shut it off in the middle of the desert and expect it to thank you.”

I ate.