I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around Read Online Free PDF Page B

releasing a faint odor of dust into the air. “These letters are my mom’s. I’ve been going through her things, I suppose as a way to keep her close. My dad died before I was born, you know.”
    “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about either of your parents until just recently.”
    “I don’t know very much about him, really. I didn’t think I was interested. I’ve always been so fierce about my mom being enough.
She
wanted so much to be enough. But now, I find that I am very interested, now that she wouldn’t know I’m asking.”
    Macie eased the letters from Tig’s hands. Tig started to resist, then relented and let Macie help her into bed. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”
    “I’m honored, Dr. M. You help a lot of people every day.”
    Tig sighed. “In these letters, apparently my mom used to call my dad ‘the Goat.’ Weird nickname, huh? I think it’s because he was a hard worker.”
    Macie smiled. “Your mother was quite the romantic.”
    The sound of her neighbor dragging a rolling garbage pail to the street seemed to return Tig to the room. “Maybe Pete is right that something wasn’t right between us. He’s always had strong intuition.”
    “Dr. M, excuse me for saying so, but leaving didn’t take much strength.”
    “Maybe Pete should take the pole dancing class.” Thatcher jumped onto the bed and happily took the spot where Pete used to lie. Tig turned away from Macie and put her arm around the dog. She spoke into the black dog’s hair, “I’m about to ask something totally unprofessional, but could you stay for a little longer?”
    Macie nodded, and when Tig’s breathing relaxed she took Tig’s phone and typed. Later, when Tig woke, she would see that Macie had found Pete’s number and typed a quick text:
You suck
. No exclamation point.
    • • •
    The next morning, Tig woke on her stomach, feeling the press and warmth of the body next to her. It was a full minute before she realized the body was her dog’s, not her boyfriend’s. She let her mind drift to the month before, when she watched Pete through her lashes as he combed his hair to cover the scythe-shaped scar near his right temple, a macabre cowlick in his short hair. She watched as he worked his lean shoulders into his favorite bright red shirt—a purchase from one of his exercise-adventure outings to Peru or Colombia—ignoring the mirror. She remembered his bemused expression when she’d joked upon seeing this particular shirt for the first time, “How many bandanas had to die to make that shirt?”
    He’d moved carefully that morning, so many weeks before—trying to find matching socks, stepping into an old pair of running shoes. Out of view, he clipped his best friend, his sport watch, to his wrist. He reappeared in her line of sight with just the breath of time she needed to close her eyes; he’d bent and kissed her forehead.
    She smiled and rolled onto her side and put her arm around the sleeping body of Thatcher. The more recent memory of the night before returned with the feeling of dense fur on her cheek. Thatcher, eager for breakfast, slapped her tail as Tig pushed to a seated position. She stepped out of bed, silently following her memory of Pete out of their room. Listening to their conversation again now from the vantage point of loss, Tig tried to figure out where her relationship GPS had led her astray. Had she expected too much, or had there been a kind of bait and switch? Had there been signs at the beginning of the relationship that read both
Scenic Road
and
Dead End
? Had she turned toward one and ignored the other?
    At the sink, she filled her coffee carafe with water and her thoughts floated to another memory, when Pete had said, “Did you see Hope House called? That private room you were waiting for opened up.”
    “Stop pushing! I know she has to go.” She had felt immediately sorry, and said, “Do you think my mom hurt herself on purpose? Do you think on some