“You’re up for cooking? Anything you don’t like to eat?” she asked. She was hungry; he was hungry, too. They were just two people who needed to eat. Everyone needed to eat. It was okay for them to eat together. Joel never really cooked and could be a picky eater, depending on his mood. She thought of the picture of him she saw on social media, the one of him grilling like a jackass.
“I like to cook, and I’m not picky,” Bridge said, tenderly lifting each cat and placing it on the couch next to him. Tallie bent to pick up the damp clothes folded neatly at his feet. “You don’t have to—”
“Not a word. I’m washing these for you,” she said, taking them. She went to her laundry room and started a load. “And even though we’re to break bread together soon, you still won’t tell me your name?” she asked when she was in front of him again. He was committed to the mystique. She was curious to see how long it would last.
“It’s Emmett,” he said. So easily, as if all she needed to do was ask kindly, one more time.
Client Name: No Last Name, Emmett.
“Okay, Emmett. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
EMMETT
Emmett could go to the bridge after dinner. He’d once wondered if the aching would ever stop and it hadn’t, so wasn’t the bridge his last hope? His only hope? Death and hope wrestled, tangled tight. Was there anything left but the bridge?
He’d peeked out when he was in the coffee-shop bathroom and seen Tallie going through his jacket, taking his letters. She was playing investigator and probably marathoned Law & Order: SVU with her cats in her lap. Probably worshipped Olivia Benson.
Tallie had given him a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, a sweater. Leftovers from her ex-husband. He went into his backpack, got out his medicine, and took it by filling his hand up with what water it could hold and throwing his head back. Pointless to take his medicine, but so what? Tallie had reminded him of it, and she was being so nice.
Before climbing over the railing, he’d counted the vehicles as he stood on the bridge.
（Seven vans. Five pickup trucks. Four delivery trucks. Fifteen cars. One motorcycle, one bike. One hooded person in the distance, walking away. The bridge lights are on, but one is flickering. One of the cars honks. Someone has graffitied a neon-yellow dick on the steel next to an ABORTION STOPS A BEATING HEART bumper sticker.）
And now it was time to make dinner. Dinner with Tallie. Tallulah Clark. A stranger. He’d never met anyone named Tallulah before and predicted she’d act differently from the other people he knew, which was true. She asked a lot of questions and smiled at him like he hadn’t just been standing on a bridge wanting to jump, wanting to quiet the noise, wanting it all to end somehow.
But the bridge would be there waiting for him, its arms outstretched. He didn’t need to make an appointment. He’d chosen today for a specific reason, but later would work, too, or tomorrow. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He wanted it to. He wanted everything to matter, but nothing did. Grief had swung open a door in his heart he hadn’t known was there, and it’d slammed closed behind him. He’d been on the other side for three years. Too long. Locked away, unable to escape, tackled and held down by the darkness that wouldn’t let him go. Jumping from the bridge meant a chance to soar before the free fall. As he climbed over the railing, he’d been cold, wet, and alone; Tallie had shown up warm. And it was Tallie who got an eggplant from the fridge and pulled a handful of campari tomatoes from a box on the counter.
（A green cruet of olive oil, a tall brown, pepper grinder, a white ceramic saltcellar labeled SEL in raised capital letters. Dark and light wooden spoons in a fat mason jar. A viney plant hanging from a hook in the ceiling. There is a small dent in the floor, front of the sink—a tiny divot a hallux can dip into.）
“Everyone likes pasta, right? It’s comforting,” she said.
“I do like pasta.”
“So you want to chop?”
“I’m a strange man in your kitchen, and you want me to take the knife?” he asked. He couldn’t not ask. What was happening?
“I’ve been reading your vibes ever since I stopped my car, and I can’t convince myself completely that you have violent energy. I’ve been trying to feel it, but I can’t. I tried to force myself to feel it, but I can’t. You seem like a kitten to me, honestly,” she said.
Christine had told him that before. Not the kitten part—he wasn’t sure how he felt about that—but she’d said he was a gentle spirit. And he’d assumed she was disappointed in him because of it. A dark macho signal he wasn’t giving off but should’ve. Like he was some sort of phenomenon the weather radar couldn’t pick up, leaving her flummoxed. Remarks like that felt like criticisms coming from women, but Tallie’s hippie comment about vibes intrigued him.