Maya gave a short, unhappy laugh. “I’m not some guy you met on an app,” I said, and she looked straight at me before replying, “Then stop answering me like one.” There was no dramatic gesture, no raised voice, nothing I could dismiss as the conversation getting out of hand. She was sitting three feet away, asking for something reasonable, while I behaved as if a word might knock down everything we had built.
She unbuckled her seat belt, and I said I was trying not to screw this up. For a second, her face softened, which hurt more than if she had stayed angry. “I know,” she said, her hand on the door, “but being afraid to name something doesn’t protect it.” Then she got out, and I stayed in the parked car long enough for the dashboard lights to dim.
The next morning, she sent a photograph of Walter by the window. Her caption said he had no opinion on labels, although he also lacked a central nervous system, and I laughed with relief so sharp it was almost unpleasant. I told her I respected his neutrality; she replied that he thought I was an idiot. Even irritated, Maya was leaving a door open, and I was beginning to understand that an open door wasn’t the same as permission to stand in it forever.
