“Want to go over to David and Cheryl's?” I asked one day. I stood and redid the comforter on the bed before strolling over to the fridge for some water. I kept making the mental note to put together the bedframe from IKEA so we could finally sleep in a proper bed. “They invited us over, and they're doing making a shepherd's pie for Great American Pie Month. I said shepherd's pie isn't American, so David's also making apple pie.”

“Sure,” Simon said, deadpan. His eyes were still glued to the screen. “One less dinner to worry about.”

I watched him. “Are you still scarred about that one book cover you did for that guy?”

“Yes, but this is different.”

“How different? What animal are we talking here?”

“Micah – ”

“Giraffe? Penguin? Oh! What about donkey?”

“No, Micah, it's not a commission.”

“Oh?” I crossed over to him and draped my arms over his shoulders, pressing my face against his. “What's up, then?”

He turned to me. “Aren't you a little concerned, Micah? The garage just laid you off.”

“Temporarily,” I corrected, “and it's because bossman said he was concerned about the Covid thing. He said he'd being me back on once this was all over. And I still have my shifts at the library, too.”

“No, Micah, you don't – ” Simon sighed. “You being off work means we're not earning enough, and not earning enough means we eat more into what we've started saving.”

“It's all temporary. That's what he said. We're not going to lose the apartment, are we?”

“I'll believe him when this's all over.” He turned back to his computer. “And no, we're not. Not with what I've saved up.”

“You seem more anxious than normal.”

“Besides you losing one of your part-time jobs?”

I pressed my face a little harder into his cheek. “Things'll be okay.”

He grumbled.

“What's up?”

He looked at me. “Just some emails.”

“Is that girl still bothering you? You can say you're not a comic book artist. And you don't have any interest adapting The Family Montegraph if she asks again. I read it. It was okay. Super boring.”

“No, I've settled that.”

“...is it a new project?”

“I haven't accepted anything new.”

“Then what's up?” I inhale, and he smells like B.O., but it was okay because I liked how he smelled, as kind of gross as that was. “What project do I need to shout at? I'll do it. I swear.”

“No, Mi – ” He snorted, trying not to smile. “You're a dork.”

“I'm your dork.”

He turned his head and squishes a kiss into my cheek.

I closed my eyes and grinned into his shoulder. “I love you.”

Simon sighed, drawing in a long, slow breath before clearing his throat.

I squished my face a little harder against his head, but I couldn't help my eyes glossing over his emails, landing on one that said the words “Dad” and “Sick” in the same subject line. It was unopened, still highlighted, and too enticing to not read. “Simon?”

“It's probably nothing,” he whispered, switching back into his sketching program and getting back to work.

Something sparked in me. It irritated me in the same way watching people cut in line after you've been in line for longer does. “Simon, what if it's important?”

“Don't know.” He cleared his throat again, and this vacant look crossed his face. “My mom, sometimes, sends those kinds emails. Texts, too. The kind that're supposed to bait me into reading.”

“What?”

“Yeah. One time, she sent a text saying she died and my dad was remarrying.”

I gasped.

“No, that's...” He smirked, only to chase it away. “That didn't happen. You cute dink.”

“Dink?”

“You heard me.”

“Simon, you're distracting me.” God, I wanted to kiss him.

He cooed at that. “Good.”

I pulled away, sliding into the seat next to him. “Simon, seriously.”

“Trust me, it's probably nothing.”

“But – Simon, what if your dad is actually sick?”

“People get sick, Micah.”

“But what if your dad's actually sick?”

“Micah, I...” He looked at me, deflating slightly. “It's...complicated. Me and my dad.” He scoffed. “Me and...everyone in my family, really.”

It never occurred to me to ask about his family. There were no pictures of them in his apartment, like they just never existed. And suddenly realizing that, the potential emptiness of countless picture frames and memories, made my heart ache for him. “I think you should go visit.”

Simon hummed and shook his head, grimacing.

“Why not?”

“Besides it...being complicated?”

I nodded.

“I haven't been home for...5 years.”

“Why so long?”

Simon smiled, and I melted a little. “Too long to explain.”

I glanced down at his hands, folded in his lap, and took them. “Well, I hope you think about it. Seriously think about it. And if you need to talk to me, I'm here, okay?”

“I will.” It sounded disingenuous, how I remember it, like he was only saying it for me to get off his back.

I smiled, and stood back up, pressing a kiss into his hair. “When do you want to go over to David and Cheryl's?”

“What does it mean to get an email from your mom saying your dad's sick?” I asked, hands under the running water while I cleaned up from dinner. The shepherd's pie smell permeated the kitchen with such a ferocity it made my mouth water still, even with the apple pie sitting out on the table. The ice cream was sitting out and softening slowly beside it.

Mrs. Reynolds slid up next to me, the small of her back pressing into the counter. “You're joking, right?”

“...no?”

“Sweet child, listen to what you say before you get confused at other people.”

“I...” I blinked, and stared at the suds. I scoffed. “I do.”

“Ask that question again.”

“I asked what it means to get an – okay, I get that, but I was more asking...” I glanced through the archway into the living room, where Mr. Reynolds and Simon were talking. “He...got an email from his mom, saying his dad was sick.”

“Sweetheart, I got that from the question. What are you actually asking?”

“Simon's reaction was...” I turned back to the sink. “...it made me feel weird.”

“Oh? He hasn't seemed...” She glanced over her shoulder. “...off, tonight. More off than normal.”

“You don't know him like I do.” I felt awful for saying it, but it seemed the only logical explanation for my boyfriend acting like that. “Thoughts? On what I should do?”

“You can...ask him about it?”

I squirmed while I finished washing. “I don't know. It feels too...invasive.”

“Micah, you moved in with him after 2 months of knowing him. What counts as 'invasive' with you two?”

And my mind immediately went somewhere else. I coughed and started scrubbing, feeling my hands prune up. “I – if something's going on, I want to be there for him, you know? But he...I don't know. Maybe I'm just overthinking.”

“And you haven't talked to him about it?”

“No. I only saw the thing before we came over.”

Mrs. Reynolds ran her fingers through her hair before turning to me. “You can ask him, Micah, but he's the one who gets to decide if he goes or not.”

“I just – I wouldn't want him to miss a chance to see his dad if he really was sick. If he was dying, I wouldn't forgive myself.”

“That's, sweet of you, Micah, but you and I both know that the right thing to do doesn't always mean it's the right thing to do.”

“If my dad called me to say he was dying, I'd go see him.”

Mrs. Reynolds recoils slightly. I've clearly pushed a button because she pushed off the counter, leaving me to finish washing the dishes alone.

For a moment, I wanted to apologize and tell her I didn't mean it, but a part of me did. It confused me, why my dad still potentially being around was such a sore spot with her, but it was true – if my dad reached out to me, saying he was dying, I'd be at his bedside, even if it was to tell him how much he hurt me. It was the right thing to do, to be there. He was still family.

“Micah,” she whispered, her voice low and melancholic, placing her hand on my shoulder. “This isn't your battle, as admirable as it is that you want to make it part of your cause. It's very sweet that you're thinking of Simon like that. But...sweetheart, if it isn't your place, don't make it your place.”

Something sparked in me. That same dull spark somewhere deep in my gut when Simon told me it was nothing. It offended me – I don't know the actual word to describe it – so deep to my core that I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself. From doing what I wasn't wholly sure.

I smiled. I smiled and said, “I'll talk it over with Simon, okay?”

Mrs. Reynolds smirked at that, but something about it told me she wasn't convinced by me.

Under the cover of suds, I started picking at my cuticles.