I fortified myself with a drink before Michael arrived on Monday. By now, he must have considered me borderline alcoholic, and maybe I was getting there. I took no pleasure in the drinking, though, and I couldn’t wait to stop. But it helped, like foul-tasting medicine. My whiskey-soaked brain functioned on one cylinder, and that was a good thing. Being in a state of mental acuity around him was simply too painful, and too ...
I gazed at my reflection as I brushed my teeth.
I wouldn’t admit it to myself, even in the vault of my mind. I hoped that effort meant something to God when he looked at my heart.
Michael let himself in as I was making my coffee, per usual. Our meetings had fallen into a comfortable rhythm. (They had been comfortable previously, at least.)
“Good morning,” he said.
To be on the safe side, I was assuming the worst: That Michael had looked up Jamie Foust, that he knew Jamie was dead, knew about their uncanny resemblance, and knew that I hadn’t wanted my sister (or anyone) to mention it.
In short, I was safely assuming that Michael knew I was hiding something. Whether he had the guts to ask me anything remained to be seen.
“Hello,” I said.
I thought I detected a new air of anxiety about him—a thin film of unease as he settled on the couch with his laptop.
“Did you have a nice time with your sister?”
“Very, thank you.” I leaned against the counter and sipped my coffee, watching the back of his head. “She has a habit of dropping by unannounced. Always has. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more notice.”
“It’s not your fault. I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“Ad absurdum. I wish I were keeping a running tally of your apologies.”
“S—” He stopped himself short of another compulsive apology. “I didn’t know you played an instrument.”
I had left my violin on the coffee table, calculatedly, to spur conversation about anything but Jamie. Poor Michael always took the bait.
“Yes, a few. That, the guitar, some of the woodwinds, and a little piano, but very poorly. Rachel is the real pianist. Our mother, too.”
“I’d love to hear you play.”
“Sure, some time.”
“You two were going to play together?” He bent over his laptop, typing.
“We were, yeah. We did. She likes us to play hymns and harmonize.”
His head came up. “You sing?”
“Yes.” I roamed into the family room, set down my coffee, and lifted the violin. I nestled it under my chin and drew the bow across a string. One perfect, liquid note sang from the wooden body. I was aware of Michael staring. From time to time, I let him. “Music was a big part of our worship services, growing up. Music and singing.”
“So your parents made you learn?”
“We wanted to learn. It gave us joy. Gives us joy.” I set down the violin and moved out of his field of vision.
“Your sister—”
“Rachel.”
“Rachel.” He cleared his throat. “She seemed nice.”
“Did she?” I blew a curl of steam off my coffee. “How so?”
He became instantly flustered, gesturing and shaking his head. “Well, I mean, sweet. No, um ... friendly. Charming.”
“Sweet?” I suppressed laughter. This was easy, and too fun. “Charming? What exactly are you trying to say, Michael?”
He caught my mocking tone and fell silent.
“Sorry.” I chuckled. “She’s a card. Really, she’s adorable, isn’t she?” I moved back around the couch so I could watch his expression. His neck was faintly flushed.
“She’s very nice.”
“Don’t you think she’s pretty?” I grinned into my mug.
“Well, sure.” He glared at his laptop, heat creeping into his face. “You both ... definitely got lucky with the gene pool.”
“Hm.” I moved away again. “How’s your girlfriend?”
The question caught him off guard, probably because we rarely discussed his life.
“She’s fine, thanks. Normal.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Michael tended to fill silences with chatter, as if he could singlehandedly build our camaraderie, so I let him stew for a moment—and, sure enough, he started up again.
“We don’t see much of each other, lately. Ships passing in the night, kind of thing.” He explained his new streaming schedule, of which I was aware. Unbeknownst to Michael, I checked his Twitter, blog, and stream regularly. “So, when I’m not here, I’m usually in the basement streaming. Basement office, that is.”
I made an understanding noise.
He continued.
“Or I’m writing blog posts, or smashing my face against this profile.” He laughed uneasily. “She gets home from work and sometimes she’ll bring down Subway or Chik-fil-A. That might be all we see of each other in a given day. That and the morning. She goes to bed pretty early, so she’s usually asleep when I finish streaming or writing.”
“Romantic,” I said.
“Yeah, really. We used to meet for lunch, but that kind of fell by the wayside.”
“I hope all this isn’t ...” I gestured vaguely to my home.
He caught my meaning and turned to look at me emphatically. “No, this is great. Journalism is what I want to do. She and I are fine. Or, I mean, these meetings aren’t ...”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to strain things.”
I stepped out to smoke and, for the first time, Michael plucked up the courage to follow. I glanced at him warily. I used my periodic smoke breaks to get away from him. It made our otherwise constant closeness tolerable.
“Do you mind?” he said.
“Of course not,” I lied.
“I love it out here. The view, the cold.”
I pictured him in his “basement office” and I wanted to say he could visit any time.
I stood at the railing and he stood at my side. When I lit my cigarette, I moved away. “Second-hand smoke,” I explained.
“That’s okay. I don’t care.”
“I do. It’s not good for you.”
“But it’s okay for you?”
I gave him a sharp look. “Yes,” I said. “That’s right.”