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She doesn’t wake up when I park.

I sit for a moment in the dark of her drive, engine off, the creek audible somewhere behind the cottage. She’s breathing slowly, her hands still tucked under her cheek.

I pick up her purse and find her keys. I open the door and come back to get her.

She makes a sound when I lift her but doesn’t wake. Instead, she cuddles into me.

I get the door open with my elbow and carry her down the hallway to her room and lay her down on the bed.

She doesn’t like sleeping in her bra, so I help her out of it. It’s neither clinical nor a lover’s touch. Her skin is soft, and she’s pliable. I leave her in her panties and pull the comforter over her. She likes to sleep under it even in the summer—because it’s cozy.

Then I see the T-shirt. A part of it, under the pillow beside her. I pull it out. It’s mine—the gray one I left here three months ago. I didn’t notice it was missing when I packed because I’d been thinking about other things. It’s folded with the care of something you can’t throw away.

It makes me both happy and sad to see it. Happy that she couldn’t let me go. Sad that I fucked up so badly, and if I hadn’t, she’d have me and not just my T-shirt.

I stand in the doorway of her bedroom in the dark for a long time and then go back to the living room.

I sit on the couch and think about how I’m going to fix what I broke.

I don’t sleep for a long time.

I wake up in my underwear, covered by one of her colorful blankets, when she comes into the living room at seven in the morning. She’s put on a pair of yoga pants and a tank top. She looks hungover.

She assesses my presence on her couch—and what it means.

“Good morning,” I murmur.

She doesn’t respond and goes into the kitchen. I hear the coffee machine.

I take the time to go to the bathroom, brush my teeth with the toothbrush I still have, which she hasn’t thrown away, and put my clothes on.

She’s in the living room when I return. There’s a cup for me on the coffee table. She’s holding one while she sits in her favorite armchair.

“You stayed.”

“Yes.”

“On the couch.”

“Yes.”

“I remember the drive over.” She traces the rim of her coffee cup. “Some of it.” She looks up. “Did I say things?”

“Yes.”

“Are they things I meant?”

“Yes.”

She nods slowly. “Then I don’t take them back.” She holds my gaze. “I’m hurt, Mason. Not in the way that goes away quickly. In the way that changed something, and I don’t know yet to what degree.” She drinks some coffee. “And I’m angry. Not all the time. Sometimes, I’m just sad. But underneath the sad there’s anger, and I need you to know that I’m not pretending it isn’t there.”

“I know.” I fold the blanket and set it aside before sitting on the couch. “I don’t want you to pretend.”

“You saw your T-shirt, didn’t you?”

I smile. “Yeah, sweetheart, I did.”

“You think I’m pathetic, don’t you?”