Olivia said like just one day where somebody else is the one who figures it out every day. Marcus said, "And then I don't because Maya for me it's my mom," she said. "And my patience and Daniel sometimes, even though he'd hate me saying that, he thinks he takes care of me. He loves you." "I know. I love him, too.
That's why I let him think it." She paused. "Is that bad?" "No," Marcus said. "That's just that's what you do when you love someone. You let them have the version of things that keeps them okay." "A long quiet. You do that with Maya?" she asked.
Everyday he said she thinks I'm fine. She thinks the shop is doing great. She thinks I sleep 8 hours and eat real meals and never sit in my truck in a parking lot at midnight just because I need 5 minutes where nobody needs anything from me. How often do you actually do that? He was quiet for a second, more than I'd like.
She didn't respond immediately. When she did, her voice was slightly different. Quieter, more careful. You should have someone, she said. Not in a I don't mean it, Ina.
She stopped, started again. You shouldn't have to do the parking lot thing alone is what I mean. You deserve somebody in your corner. Marcus was quiet for a long time. So, do you, he said finally.
Neither of them said anything else for a moment that stretched out long enough meat to contain something neither of them had named yet. "Good night, Marcus," she said. "Good night, Olivia." He hung up. He sat in the dark for a while and then he did something he had been putting off because doing it would mean and acknowledge acknowledging that this thing was real enough to require acknowledgement. He texted Daniel.
Can we get lunch this week? Just us need to talk to you about something. Daniel texted back within 2 minutes. Yeah, man. Wednesday.
Something wrong. Marcus stared at the question mark. Nothing's wrong. Just need to talk. Wednesday, usual spot.
Marcus sat down the phone. He thought about what he was going to say. He ran through it in his head. The version where he led with respect. The version where he was.
Matter of fact, the version where he said, "Daniel, look, I know this is complicated, but I want you to hear it from me." None of the versions were comfortable. That was fine. Marcus had never needed comfortable. He needed honest. Wednesday came.
They met at the diner. On fifth, the one they've been going to, since they were 19 and broke. And the coffee was a$125 and the free refills made it survivable. The place had changed owners twice since then, but kept the same booths and the same coffee, and Marcus and Daniel had kept the same table by the window for 15 years by some unspoken automatic agreement. Daniel was already there when Marcus arrived.