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Ian turns the other way. “I need…” He sighs. The Bad Sigh. “Just not now.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

He doesn’t kiss me goodbye, doesn’t promise to text. I think he will, though. Then again, I kind of don’t want him to. I don’t want to miss him. I don’t want to think of Ian as another missing piece from my half-put-together puzzle. And there’s no one to talk to about this. Not Lucy. Definitely not Rio. Brook might take Ian’s side. I can’t go babbling this in a GSA meeting. It’s only me.

I stare at Mr. Ivanov’s yard, at all these wonderful pieces coming together to create this epic scene, this fully-imagined idea, even if it’s a month early.

“Where’s the Thanksgiving-love, Ivanov?” I say to the wind, to the white oak.

Suddenly, a voice beside me says, “Jonathan used to love Thanksgiving. It was his favorite holiday.”

I whip around, and next to me is an old man with a tired face, sad brown eyes, and a plaid shirt. He’s staring at the tree, too, with tight shoulders and a slight hunch to his stance. I’ve never seen Mr. Ivanov outside of his house.

“He loved watching the parade,” Mr. Ivanov says. “He was an interior designer, so things like this…” He waves an arm at the lawn. “…were his pride and joy. We’d decorate it together every year until he couldn’t, until he didn’t want to get out of bed. Then he’d let me decorate our bedroom and pretend that was good enough.”

Something aches in his cold voice. It’s the way I talk about Dimi, the way Free talks about Ruby: hollow resentment mixed with longing.

I finally get my voice to work. “Jonathan?”

“My husband.” A brief tremble passes over him. “My late husband.”

I manage not to appear shocked, but I am. I shouldn’t be shocked that Mr. Ivanov had a husband. I shouldn’t have assumed he was straight or peculiar or anything but a man who’s missing a piece of himself and unable to navigate through that.

He clears his throat. “It’s been seven years. Seven years since the chemo stopped working. And I still can’t decorate for Thanksgiving.”

The wind shakes the remaining leaves until they fall. More color to the lawn. Another piece of life ending.

“Maybe I’ll try again next year,” he adds

We exhale in unison. Mr. Ivanov’s gaze on me is heavy; his head is cocked. He’s not as old and withered as he looked peering from behind his curtains.

“Everything okay?”

Instinct tells me to lie. This is the first time I’ve been in the same breathing space as Mr. Ivanov. He’s always been a ghost with a whimsical yard. But I reply, “No,” because something tells me he knows what it’s like to not be okay.

“Most of us aren’t okay,” he says. “We’re simply good at hiding it.”

“I guess.”

We leave it at that. I watch Mr. Ivanov walk shakily toward his house. Then, over his shoulder, he says, “Tell that dog of yours this land is sacred. Jonathan might’ve loved dogs, but I don’t need her shitting on my lawn,” with a grin, a full one.

After he’s back behind the safety of his blood-red door, I stand there wondering why Mr. Ivanov shared all that with me. Is it because he doesn’t have anyone else to talk to? Do we find that safe space in strangers, people who don’t know us well enough to judge our flaws?

It hits me. I tug out my phone, pull up Facebook messenger, and type away. I find the one person who doesn’t know me well enough yet to consider me a failure.

* * *

“So, this is about boyproblems?” asks Free, picking a leaf of spinach from her pizza slice. “Fine. You’re buying.”

“Deal.”

We’re at Savage Pizza. It’s one of my favorite places in Little Five Points. I love all the comic book memorabilia on the walls and the action figures hanging from the ceiling. Bright pops of yellow and blue and red are everywhere. The scent of oil and fresh parmesan on the New York-style pizzas is blissful. We’ve been here thirty minutes and haven’t talked much.

Correction:Ihaven’t said much. Free’s talked about classes and a party she went to where they playedClue,as in the board game. She’s talked about the cute waiter at the Vortex she’s totally not going on a date with. But we haven’t discussed Ian at all. Until now, I guess.

“I’m ordering more pizza and you’re gonna pay with that fancy credit card your parents probably gave you,” she says.

“I don’t have a credit card,” I say with bite. “I’m not some spoiled kid, you know. Living in the suburbs doesn’t mean I get a BMW and a trust fund.”