Saul sits on my couch looking like a government-issue daydream while calmly explaining what to do if someone tries to murder me. I’m nodding like I’m listening, but I’m mostly cataloging the slope of his throat and wondering if he’d taste like coffee.
I’m curled up on the other end, legs tucked under me, trying to listen. Trying not to make eye contact with his hands. Or his jawline. Or his entire terrifying stability.
“Questions?” he asks when he’s done.
“Yeah,” I blurt. “When do I get to stare at your forearms again?”
Okay, not what I say. What I say is,“When will I see you again?”
But it comes out like I’m auditioning for abandonment issues: the musical.
He doesn’t treat me like I’ve said something pathetic. Whichsomehow makes it worse,because I’m two seconds from sobbing into his t-shirt like it’s a weighted blanket with biceps.
“Two weeks,” he says. “I’ll call before I come.”
Two weeks. Fourteen days without the knocks on my door. Without the coffee and the curtains and the way he looks at me like I’m still real.
“I’ll be available,” he adds. “Anytime. You call, I answer.”
Bro. Why would you say that. Why would you say that like you’re a wish and I’m allowed to make it.
“I know,” I whisper.
I’m already imagining how his voice will sound when I do call. In bed. With the lights off. Pretending he’s still here.
“You’ve been really kind,” I say, which is not a normal way to say“Please wreck me emotionally and also physically.”
He just looks at me. Faded blue eyes and that unreadable face that makes me want to take off my shirt and scream ‘notice me, you saintly bastard.’
“You made me cookies with walnuts,” he finally says. “Kind recognizes kind.”
Excuse me sir I’m too emotionally unstable for you to drop love language bombshells disguised as throwaway lines.
I’m actually picturing his mouth on my neck and trying to calculate if it’s illegal to fall in love with your U.S. Marshal.
“Saul.”
“You’re going to be okay.” He cuts me off gently, like he knows if I start crying neither of us will survive it. “You’re stronger than you think.”
I nod.
I want to believe him.
He stands.
I walk him to the door.
“Two weeks,” he says again.
“Two weeks.”
He lingers in the doorway. Opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else.
Doesn’t.
And then he’s gone, leaving me standing in the echo of everything we didn’t say, holding my ovaries like a funeral clutch.
The door clicks shut. I lock everything, deadbolt, chain, emotional regulation. None of it helps. The apartment is still full of Saul-shaped air, and I’m not okay.
