“You’re right,” Peter said. “You’re absolutely right.”
And now I needed to leave the room. Otherwise I was going to cave too quickly. I grabbed my robe and started for the door without looking at Peter again.
“Wait, Jonathan, where are you going?” he called after me. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
I paused in the doorway, but without turning back. “Do you want some coffee?”
A peace offering.
“Yes.” Peter sounded relieved. “Thank you, Jonathan.”
The house was silent as I made my way down the steps, softly creaking in that way I loved. My parents believed in pristine and new, with the exception of our Hamptons estate, whose antique vintage was acceptable only because it was constructed entirely of stone.
The newly remodeled kitchen was filled with pretty stainless steel and lots of white marble and cool gray cabinets stocked with cooking items only Peter knew how to use. He might have been bad with money, but he was an excellent cook. And he liked taking care of me in that way. With the sun still low and the lights off, the kitchen had a cool glow. I stood there for a moment, drinking in the stillness. It was nice, this life Peter and I had built for ourselves.
I left the lights off as I made my way over to the large, shiny espresso machine. It wasn’t until I was standing in front of it, coffee cups in hand, that I remembered I had absolutely no idea how to operate it. Peter always made the coffee.
I was still staring at the coffee machine when the door swung open.
“Good morning,” Keith said, looking sheepish, but cleaned up, and fully dressed.
His eyes had also lost some of their manic sheen. Of course, that probably meant he’d gotten high.
“Feeling better?” I asked.
“Not sure better is exactly the right word,” Keith said. “But it doesn’t feel like my bone marrow has been replaced with battery acid anymore or like I need to claw my skin off. So, sure, I guess that’s progress.”
And suddenly, there we were, talking about it— Keith and the drugs. We were always talking around it with Keith, the same way we were always talking around what had happened to Alice. That was what we did with the things we felt bad about, circled them endlessly, never close enough to actually make contact.
“Is that really what it’s like if you’re not high?”
“Yup,” Keith said. “If I wait too long, my intestines feel like they’re being twisted in a fist. Eventually the stomach pain is so bad you’re essentially incapacitated. And then I start throwing up. Don’t get me wrong, I liked being high in the beginning. That’s what started all of this. But using these days is mostly a way to avoid getting sick. And the more you use, the worse it all gets.”
“Jesus, Keith.”
“Yeah, well, don’t do drugs, man,” he said mildly, then looked me up and down, as I stood helplessly in front of the coffee machine. “Here, give it.” He motioned for a mug.
I handed it over. Keith grabbed a tea towel and tossed it over his shoulder, setting about filling the espresso handle with coffee and locking it back into place. As the coffee brewed, he took a carton of milk from the refrigerator, filled the small metal container, and turned on the steam with a loud hiss.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” I asked.
“Um, in the world.” Keith raised an eyebrow. “You should check it out sometime— it’s this place where all the regular people have to do stuff for themselves.”
“Fuck you,” I said, rolling my eyes.
Keith smiled as he handed me the coffee, and for a second I saw in his face the old him. A little wild, sure— he was an artist, after all— but wild with heart, and hope. And then Alice killed herself, and that 10,000-watt bulb inside Keith popped. Ever since, his center had been nothing but a dark and infinite void.
Keith looked down at the second mug. The one I’d already had in my hand when he walked in. “This wasn’t for me, was it?”
I shook my head. “Peter is here.”
“Ah, I see.” Keith nodded slowly, stepping forward to start making the second coffee. “So I suppose you’ll be wanting this coffee for him?”
I nodded, trying not to feel embarrassed. Was it obvious there was some issue with Peter not paying the contractors? But Keith was hardly one to judge. “Maybe you should bring your friend Crystal some coffee?”
Keith shook his head. “Touché, my friend. Touché,” he said. “I’m sorry that— actually, I don’t think I can apologize any more. At a certain point, you feel like more of a dick saying you’re sorry. When did Peter get here?”