Page 78 of Coming in Hot

“You will—it hasn’t even been a year.”

She monkeys with the music for a few minutes. “It’s crazy that I can listen to…everything in existence. My God, the money I wasted on sixteen-dollar CDs to own just one song I loved!” She chuckles, shaking her head. A new track starts—something buzzy and gloomy with that distinctive nineties growling moan.

She stirs the milkshake, alternating between taking sips and singing along to a song. I’m about to launch into book talk so the lack of conversation doesn’t feel weird when she sprints headlong into Weirdville by asking the one question I don’t want to hear.

“So… you really think it’s over with your boy? Finito, no hope of reconciling?”

“He’s hardly a ‘boy’ at forty-six,” I mutter.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, it’s done. I’m moving on with life, and I’m sure he is too.” After a few groveling messages the first week, Klaus stopped trying. Not a word since then. Is he as brokenhearted as I am, or relieved to go back to his billionaire bachelor lifestyle?

There’s a freeway-mile-long silence, and I can tell Sherri is deliberating over saying more. It makes me feel bad that she and Jason live in fear of annoying me and having me cut them off. Taking pity on her, I offer a question of my own.

“Did you, uh, have breakups? I mean, you started dating… um,Jason… so young. Was he your first boyfriend?” For a second I almost said “my dad,” but it felt too unnatural. I’m not sure if they’ll ever be Mom and Dad. It might be like learning a language late in life, my brain “translating” every time rather than feeling the meaning.

“Ha! Oh, definitely not. Maybe it’s TMI, but I was kind of a slut in my day.”

I wince. “Slut-shaming also went the way of calorie-counting, just so you know.”

“Even if it’s about myself?” She shrugs. “Whatever. Jesus, your generation is so touchy. And not to rub salt in the wound, but you guys don’t get laid enough. If these dating TV shows are to be believed, millennials and Gen Z take forever to have sex with a new person. What’s the big deal? Sex was casual and friendly in my day. We were more worried about AIDS than emotions in the eighties and nineties.”

“Is that… somehow better?” I ask pointedly.

“Made it easier to not get your heart broken, that’s for sure.” There’s a squeaky suction noise as she works at pulling the thick ice cream through the straw. “What are your numbers?”

“My what?”

“Numbers. Body count. Like how many guys.”

I glance at her, aghast.

“Oh,” she says. “Is that one of the things people don’t ask now? I’d tellyou.”

“I one hundred percent don’t need to know.”

Another half mile of silence.

“This isn’t a diss,” she continues, “but I can’t tell if your generation is overall uptight, or if it’s because you were raised by an old lady.”

I give a sharp sigh. “Some from column A, some from column B. Can we talk about, like,anythingbut this?”

“Fine, yes. Sorry. Jeez.” She fiddles with her straw. “I’m just curious to know if you have a plan about him. Klaus.”

“No.”

“You probably should. Because of… y’know. Maybe go to that race next week in Texas?”

“Not gonna happen, thanks.”

What was I thinking, suggesting a hiking excursion that’s a nearly five-hour round trip away? I’m losing a day of writing, and my goal was to hit fifty thousand words this week. As I’m doing mental calculations of adjusted daily word count and thinking about emails I’ve sent to some expert consultants in the US criminal justice system, Sherri pipes up again.

“You’ve never mentioned if you love him. It’ll be my last question if you’re firm on avoiding the subject, but I’m curious.”

I watch the scenery roll past, waiting to reply as I battle a tightness in my throat that would make the words come out as a pathetic croak.

“Yeah, I did love him.”

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