Page 106 of Second Alarm
"Okay."
"I'm not going to stop being his friend." He says it more to himself than to me. "I'm going to punch him again. Definitely. Probably multiple times. Over the next year. When I think about specific moments — like Thanksgiving 2019, when I asked him about my sister and he said 'She seems good' — did he talk to you that fall?"
"No, Cal. We didn't talk. Not for ten years. Not once."
"Huh." A beat. "Okay. I'll only punch him a few times then."
"Cal."
"I'm kidding. I'm — I'm a little. I'm kidding."
"I can't tell."
"Neither can I."
I laugh. He laughs. Not a big laugh — small, ragged. But a laugh.
"Will you come home for dinner this week?"
He looks at me. "Yeah, but no Ty. Not yet."
“Okay, Cal. I get it.”
"Not Ty. I'll tell you when." He shifts in the sling. "I'm sorry I hit him."
"I'm not."
"Hanna."
"You needed to. He needed you to. We all needed you to. It was the right thing. Don't apologize for it. You earned that one."
"You're a weird sister."
"I know."
"You're my sister."
"I am."
A beat.
"Tell him I'm going to punch him again."
"Okay."
"Tell him — tell him it's not over. But tell him — " he takes a breath " — tell him he's still my best friend. Tell him I don't know what to do with that yet. But tell him."
"Okay."
"Okay."
"I love you."
"I love you too, now get out of my apartment." He looks at the door. "Go call him."
I don't say anything. I put my hand on his good shoulder and squeeze it, and he puts his hand over mine, and we sit there for one second, and then I pick up my coat and walk out through the squeaky front stairs.
On the sidewalk in front of Cal's place, on a Tuesday morning, sun coming over the roofline, I pull out my phone with hands that are — for the first time in twenty-four hours — steady.
