Offered to come the next morning.
Miles hung up.
Then cried in my car.
“He always leaves.”
“The flight was canceled.”
“I know.”
“He tried.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you angry?”
Miles stared through the windshield.
“You always say he didn’t know about us.”
“Yes.”
“But he could have known.”
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
“He chose not to.”
“At that time, he chose not to believe.”
Miles cried harder.
“So how do I know he wants to know me now?”
That answer belonged to Adrian.
I told him.
The following weekend, Adrian sat on the floor outside Miles’s bedroom for almost an hour.
No knocking repeatedly.
No demanding the door open.
Eventually Miles opened it.
“Are you going to disappear again?”
Adrian did not say:
Never.
Instead:
“I travel.”
“I may miss something again.”
“I may disappoint you.”
Miles stared.
“That sounds bad.”
“It’s honest.”
