Page 57 of After His Eulogy
“Griffin.”
“Yeah.”
“He gave you a choice.”
“He did.”
“You don’t have to make it now.”
“I know.”
“You don’t…“
“Reed. I know. I’m not making it now. I’m making it in three to six months. After we’ve lived in this for a while. When there’s something to actually decide between.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
I get up. I walk to the desk. I stand behind him. I put my hands on his shoulders, the same way I did at the kitchen table last night. He puts his hand up and over mine.
“You were not on it just now,” he says.
“What.”
“You did not put your hand on my arm. You did not… you were not…“
“I did not want to be in the way.”
“Okay.”
“You did okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
He leans his head back against my stomach. He closes his eyes. He keeps his hand on mine. I look down at the top of his head and think the thing I’ve been not thinking, which is that he hasn’t told me what his name was. He’s told me the new name. He’s told me the old first name. Reece. He hasn’t told me the last name. The last name on the gravestone. The last name I would know. I haven’t asked. I asked once, in a library stack, weeks ago, and he told me he couldn’t tell me, and I haven’t asked again. He still hasn’t told me. He just told Mendez, on the phone, in the conversation we both heard — but he didn’t say the last name on the call either. Mendez knows. Mendez has the file. Mendez didn’t need it spoken. The name was in the room as a thing both of them already knew. I was on the couch, the third person in the room, listening to a call about myself. The name was the one piece of information that wasn’t for me. He hasn’t told me his last name and I’m about to follow him to a new town.
I do not say anything about it. I am keeping track of the shape of what we are doing, and this is part of the shape, that I am with a man whose full name I do not know. I leave my hand on his shoulder. This is going to be a question someday, but it is not a question right now.
“Griffin.”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you for being here.”
“Don’t thank me.”
“Right.”
“Pick a different word.”
“I don’t have a different word.”
“That’s okay. You don’t need one.”
