Page 13 of Things We Left Behind

“How are you feeling?”

“Infuriated,” I answered. “A man like that could be doing more good. He should have had more time. His family still needs him.” I still needed him.

“Nothing rocks our foundations like an unexpected death,” Emry empathized. He would know. His wife had passed away after a car accident four years ago. “If the world was a fair and just place, would your father have had more time?”

Crack. Clink.

In a fair and just world, Ansel Rollins would have lived out his full sentence, and the day of his release, he would have suffered a painful and traumatic death. Instead, he’d managedto escape his punishment due to a stroke that had quietly ended his life in his sleep. The unfairness of it had the rage rattling that locked box inside me.

“You haven’t been my therapist for fifteen years. I don’t have to talk about him with you anymore.”

“As one of the few people on this planet who you tolerate, I’m only pointing out that two father figures dying within six months of each other is a lot for any human.”

“I believe we’ve established that I’m not human,” I reminded him.

Emry chuckled, undisturbed. “You’re more human than you think, my friend.”

I scoffed. “No need to be insulting.”

Crack. Clink.

“How did it go with Simon’s daughter?”

“Which one?” I hedged deliberately.

Emry snorted. “Don’t make me come up there in a snowstorm.”

I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t feel compelled to look toward Sloane’s house. “It was…fine.”

“You managed to be civil at the funeral?”

“I’m almost always civil,” I snapped wearily.

Emry chuckled. “What I wouldn’t give to meet the infamous Sloane Walton.”

“You’d need more than one session if you wanted to get to the bottom of what’s wrong with her,” I told him.

“I find it fascinating how she’s lodged herself so securely under your skin when you’re an expert at surgically removing annoyances from your life.”

Crack. Clink.

“How did Sadie’s piano recital go?” I asked, changing the subject to one my friend couldn’t possibly ignore: his grandchildren.

“In my humble opinion, she outperformed all the other five-­year-­olds with her stirring rendition of ‘I’m a Little Teapot.’”

“Of course she was the best,” I agreed.

“I’ll send you the video as soon as I learn how to text ten minutes of shaky footage.”

“I can’t wait,” I lied. “Have you gotten up the nerve to ask out your neighbor yet, or are you still lurking behind your curtains?”

My friend had developed a crush on the stylish divorcée across the street and, by his own account, had only managed to grunt and nod in her general direction.

“The right opportunity hasn’t presented itself yet,” he said. “I would also like to point out the irony of you encouraging me to start dating again.”

“Marriage is right for some people. People like you who can’t stop burning casseroles and need a nice woman to force you to stop dressing like a 1980s sitcom star.”

Headlights next door skimmed the fence that divided my backyard from Sloane’s. I got to my feet and went to the window on the other wall that overlooked the front of her house. It looked as though Sloane was getting company whether she wanted it or not.