was at school. And since my diagnosis, we’ve heard nothing from any of them.”
Evan swallowed. He remembered that part well. Remembered people who were a backdrop in his life disappearing one by one, just as he needed them most, proving how alone he and his mother really were. At the worst possible time.
Then Shirley patted his hand. “But here you are—a man he’s known five minutes—bringing me lasagne and letting me talk rubbish in your ear.” She eyed him closely. “You’re a good person, Evan Miller.”
“I’m nothing special,” he said. “I just… I treat people how I’d want to be treated. And Zach’s a good guy.”
“He is. I’m very proud of him.” A slight smile curved her lips, her eyes hovering toward the door. Then she turned their watery blue back to Evan. “And I’m pleased that he’s made a friend like you. Zach has been playing a certain role for far too long. He needs someone to help him get out of it.”
Evan shifted. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You’ll see.” She smiled. “You’re very caring. Caring people are observant.” Then, as suddenly as she’d taken it, Shirley released his hand. “Now, then,” she said brightly. “Never mind my nurse troubles. Have you found anyone interesting in our little corner of the world?”
“Aside from you, you mean?” Evan winked.
“Oh, stop it. I’m immune to your charms, Mr. Miller. You get yourself a nice young thing to run around with.”
Evan’s mind flew to Ruth without hesitation. He wondered how she’d feel about the fact that, in his head, she was apparently a nice young thing.
She’d probably push him in front of lorry.
The thought, perversely, made him smile.
Evan hadn’t come over on Monday.
Which was fine. Microwaved Chicago Town pizzas had fed Ruth well, and they’d do the same tonight.
She was trying her best to convince herself of this utter falsehood when she heard the familiar heave of 1B’s front door. It had already opened and shut once this evening, making her jump out of her skin, but Evan had not appeared.
Now she held her breath and fiddled with her pizza box and tried to pretend that she wasn’t waiting for him to knock.
He knocked.
She, of course, dropped the pizza.
When Ruth finally made it to the door, she found Evan waiting with two huge, steaming bowls instead of his trusty Pyrex dish.
“Hi,” he said.
She ignored his greeting and got to the point, nodding toward one of the bowls. “Is that for me?”
“It is.” He smiled, and she ignored that too. Or rather, she ignored the hysterical flip it triggered in her tummy. How embarrassing.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Just Bolognese. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not a very exciting cook.”
Ruth didn’t bother to explain that she could not stand exciting food. “Is that one for you?”
He looked over at the second bowl of pasta, his smile fading. “Yeah. Huh. I don’t know why I dragged it over here.”
“What rubbish. You’re trying to worm your way back into my house.”
He grinned. “Okay, I suppose I am.”
“Well, come on.” Ruth knew very well that her voice was flat and that her face, according to most people, was blank.
But internally, her nerves were a mess, like multiple pairs of earbuds shoved into the same coat pocket. She didn’t know where one feeling ended and the other began, or how to disentangle them; all she knew was that anxiety and hesitant pleasure and anticipation coiled around each other in her gut, and altogether, they made her feel slightly sick.
In a good way. Kind of. She wasn’t sure.
They sat down at her tiny kitchen table wordlessly, and she provided both cutlery and glasses of water. If he wanted anything else, he was shit out of luck. She didn’t have anything else.
Except tea. She’d forgotten to offer him tea. Was it too late to mention? She wasn’t entirely sure. Once she managed to knock herself off the socially acceptable path, Ruth could never figure out how to climb back on again.
“So,” Evan asked. “What do you do?”
Was it worrying that she’d been hoping he’d seek her out? That he’d come over, and they’d spend time together again, as soon as humanly possible?
Probably.
“Ruth?” he said again.
This time, the words penetrated, soaking into her brain like oil into muslin.
“I… I produce a web comic,” she said, twisting pasta around her fork. She usually avoided this topic, but the words came out before she could think to control them.
“A web comic?” A slow smile spread across his face. “I can’t say I’m