“Mm.”

He let out a laugh. It was harder to hear than crying.

“So you had a backup all along, didn't you? Just waiting for me to slip up so you could walk out with a clear conscience?”

I peeled off my face mask.

“Amos, be reasonable.”

“I'm not being reasonable? You got involved with someone else, and you want me to be reasonable?”

His voice kept rising.

“What's his name? Where does he live? I'm going to find him.”

“What for?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“What do you have to say to him?”

“I want to see what he's got that made you put on his ring in three days.”

I hung up.

He called again. I blocked him.

Five minutes later, the landline in the living room rang.

My mom answered.

“It's for you. Some guy. Sounds like he's about to cry.”

I walked over and picked up the receiver.

“What do you want?”

“I want to see you.”

“I don't want to see you.”

“Just tell me one thing. Is it real? Is that ring real?”

“It's real.”

His breathing came heavy.

“Do you even know him? How long have you two known each other?”

“I've known him for ten years.”

The line went quiet.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I've known him for ten years. Longer than you.”

His voice shook.

“You're lying to me.”

“I'm not. We met in college. He's liked me this whole time. I just never said yes.”

“Why now? Why are you saying yes now?”

“Because I finally figured it out. Some people are worth waiting for, and some people are just there to be missed.”

He was silent for ten-odd seconds.

“Amos, are you listening?”

“I'm here.”

He hung up.

I thought that was the end of it.

At seven that evening, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door, and Amos was standing there with a bunch of flowers in his hand, his eyes red.

He'd lost weight. Three days, and he'd shrunk a whole size. He hadn't shaved, his shirt was rumpled, and there was a grease stain near the collar.

“Are you out of your mind? How did you find this place?”

“Your mom told me. I begged her for half an hour.”

I stood in the doorway and didn't let him in.

“Go home.”

“I'm not going home.”

He took half a step forward. “Just hear me out. I know I was wrong. I shouldn't have gone to the movies with her, shouldn't have lent her the money, shouldn't have stayed at work and never come home. You were right about all of it. I just didn't appreciate you.”

“It's no use saying any of this now.”

“I know it's no use, but I have to say it.”

He drew a deep breath. “I love you.”

I froze for a second.

“What did you say?”

“I love you. I've never said that to anyone in my life. You're the first. Please. Don't marry someone else.”

His eyes went red, and the flowers trembled in his hand.

I looked at that face of his. A few seconds.

Then I laughed.

“Amos, you said it too late.”

Someone came up behind me, a hand settling on my waist.

Max Dickerson had appeared behind me at some point, in his loungewear, his hair still wet, like he'd just gotten out of the shower.

He glanced at Amos and spoke, not loudly.

“Who's this?”

Amos stared at the hand on my waist, frozen in place like he'd been nailed there.

The color drained from his face.

The flowers dropped to the floor.

Max looked down at the bouquet, then back at Amos, his tone flat.

“Oh. So you're the one.”

“The man who wasn't quite up to it……”

Max's hand was still resting on my waist.

Amos stared at that hand, his eyes rimmed red, his throat working once.

“Who the hell are you?”

Max didn't let go, and he didn't step back.

“Max Dickerson.”

“I asked who the hell you are.”

“I told you. Max Dickerson.”

Amos took a step forward. Max didn't move.

They stared at each other across the threshold, the air sinking heavy between them.

Amos turned to look at me.

“You're living with him?”

I said nothing.

“I'm talking to you. Are you living with him or not?”

Max shifted, putting himself between us.

“She's done with you. Clean.”

“I wasn't asking you!”

Amos shouted it at him, then locked his eyes on me again. “Answer me.”

I looked at him. Stubble, red-rimmed eyes, one shirt button done up wrong, the collar crooked.

Ten years, and I'd never seen him this wrecked.

“Go home, Amos.”

“I'm not going home.”

“Then standing here won't do anything.”

He pointed at Max. “What gives you the right?”

Max's brow flickered, but he didn't speak.

I looked at Amos. “Just go. Stop making a scene.”

“Making a scene?”

He laughed, and it was uglier than crying. “Ten years with you, and you call this a scene?”

He looked down at the flowers on the floor, bent, and picked them up. A few petals had broken off and lay scattered.

He held them out to me.

“Take them.”

I didn't.

His hand hung there in the air for a few seconds, then slowly came back down.

Max spoke. “She doesn't want them. Don't push her.”

Amos threw the flowers to the ground.

Petals scattered everywhere, and water splashed onto Max's slippers.

Max looked down at it. He didn't move away.

“Feels good now, doesn't it?” Amos asked him.

“No.”

“You won. You're pretty pleased with yourself, aren't you?”

Max looked at him. “There's nothing to be pleased about.”

“Cut the act.”

Max's voice stayed level. “You think I'm the one who edged you out? You did that to yourself.”

Amos's fists clenched.

I tugged Max's sleeve. “Don't. Leave it.”

Max stepped back and cleared the doorway.

Amos stood there, his chest heaving.

He looked at me, his eyes shot through with red.

“Just answer me one thing. You and him, is it real?”

“It's real.”

“Since when?”

“After we broke up.”

“You're lying.”

“I'm not.”

“Three days after we split and you're with him? Tell me you didn't already have someone lined up.”

Max spoke. “She never came to me. I'm the one who came to her.”

Amos stared at him.

“I bought the ring. I pursued her. She didn't come looking for me.”

Amos's chest heaved hard, his knuckles white.

I took a step forward. “Go home, Amos. Don't come back.”

“And if I don't?”

“Then you'll only humiliate yourself more.”

He stared at me, something turning over in his eyes.

I turned and walked back inside without looking back.

Max stood in the doorway and didn't close the door right away.

Amos's voice came from behind me, badly hoarse.

“If you ever treat her badly, I'll kill you.”

Max said nothing and shut the door.

In the moment it closed, I saw Amos still standing there, the crushed flowers clutched in his hand.

Max turned and glanced at me.

“Are you okay?”

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

“I'm okay.”

Outside, something slammed against the wall, then footsteps, growing fainter and fainter.

Max didn't move. He stayed in the entryway, waiting for me.

I opened my eyes and looked at him.

"Go put your shoes on."

He glanced down at the soaked slippers on his feet, made a small sound of agreement, and turned to change them.

I went to the window and lifted one corner of the curtain.

The street below was empty. The lamp was on, and a few petals lay on the ground, rolling a couple of turns in the wind.

Max came over in his shoes and stood beside me at the window, hands in his pockets.

"Will he come back?"

"I don't know."

I let the curtain fall and turned to get water in the kitchen.

He followed and leaned against the fridge, watching me.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come out."

"You'd have met sooner or later."

He nodded and didn't say anything else.

I took a sip of water and set the glass down.

"Do you regret it?" he asked.

"No."

"Then why are your hands shaking?"

I looked down. My fingertips really were trembling.

I curled them into a fist and pulled them back.

Max came over, took my hand, pressed his palm against my fingers, and slowly closed it around them.

"I'll cook you some pasta."

"I'm not hungry."

"Just a little."

He turned and opened the fridge for eggs, the motion easy, as if he'd lived here a long time.

In truth, he'd only moved in last night.

I sat at the table and watched him cook.

He brought the water to a boil, dropped in the pasta, cracked the eggs, added salt.

Every step unhurried.

"When you were with Amos, who cooked?"

"He never did."

Max turned the heat down and stirred the pasta with chopsticks.

"So who did?"

"I did. For ten years."

He didn't answer. He turned off the heat, lifted the pasta out, and set it in front of me.

"You won't have to anymore."

I looked down at the bowl, steam rising into my face.

Max held the chopsticks out to me. I didn't take them.

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to eat."

"I'm serious."

He laid the chopsticks across the rim of the bowl. "Eat this, and I'll tell you."

I picked them up and took a bite. It was bland. He'd been light on the salt.

"All these years, I've wanted you to finally see who really cares about you," he said.

I chewed without looking up, my eyes stinging a little.

The doorbell rang again.

The chopsticks stopped midair. Max glanced at me, then went to the door.

I looked through the peephole. Amos was back, no flowers this time, dust on his clothes, his eyes still red.

Max opened the door but didn't let him in.

"You're still here?"

"I need to say one thing to her."

"She doesn't want to talk to you."

Amos tilted his head and looked past him into the apartment. "You come out, and I'll say just one thing."

I went to the door and stood behind Max.

"Say it."

Amos's voice was dry. "That five hundred thousand—I've wired it back."

I said nothing.

"I kept your account number. That fifty cents you sent me, I've paid it back too. I wired you five million."

Max turned his head and looked at me.

"Are you out of your mind?" I said.

"I'm not. I'm just telling you I don't owe you anything."

"Whether you owe me has nothing to do with money."

A vein jumped in Amos's neck. "Then tell me. What does he have that I don't?"