Let Him Have His Moon

Gavin pushed the door open, and I hurried over with a bowl for him to taste.

He clamped a hand over his nose and backed away.

"Valerie, can you not cook this stuff at home?"

"It reeks. Anyone who didn't know better would think the toilet blew up."

I felt hurt, so I carried my noodles out to the balcony to eat.

After that I never bought it again.

But now he'd not only made it—he'd eaten it.

So it wasn't that he wouldn't eat it. He just wouldn't eat it with me.

Footsteps came closer. Gavin carried the little pot in one hand, two sets of chopsticks and spoons in the other.

When he saw me sitting on the couch, his steps hitched.

"Why are you up so early?"

He turned to Naomi.

"Get her a bowl too."

"No need. I don't like it."

I said.

Naomi glanced at Gavin, at a loss.

He frowned.

"Didn't you use to like it?"

"And didn't you use to not like it?"

I leaned back, my eyes settling on that little moon-painted bowl.

"So a minute ago, you liked it again?"

His voice shot up.

"Valerie, first thing in the morning and you're throwing a—"

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Henson."

Naomi cut in, her eyes rimmed red.

"When we're on the job, everyone shares one set of dishes to keep it simple. I just wasn't paying attention."

"It won't happen again."

Gavin pulled her over to a chair and sat her down.

"Why waste your breath on her? Probably hit menopause early."

"Just eat. We've got to fly to the northwest after this."

For the next twenty minutes he ladled her soup and passed her napkins.

They talked and laughed about Asian elephant calves trailing the herd, wobbling along clumsily, unable to control their little trunks.

The whole time, I might as well have been invisible.

Not until everything was cleared and they were heading out did Gavin pause at the entryway, look at me for two seconds, and finally close the door.

I knew he was waiting for me.

Every other time he'd left, fight or no fight, I'd given him a kiss.

Told him to be safe.

But this time, I didn't look up.

And he didn't turn back.

He left to chase the next grassland—with Naomi.

That afternoon I went down to the government services center to apply for a passport.

The moment I got back in the car, my phone chimed. My lawyer had sent the final version of the divorce agreement.

I opened the file, and when I reached the assets page, my finger stopped.

The place we lived in now was bought by my father the year I turned eighteen, registered in my name. It was my premarital property.

When I was three, my mother went out to buy groceries, and a truck lost control and swerved toward a child at the roadside.

She threw herself over him without thinking, shielded that child, and never woke up again.

After that, my father worked without a single complaint, took second jobs, built up something solid for me to stand on.

In his free time, he studied the things I loved and the celebrities I liked, just to close the gap between us.

Through my teenage years, he protected my sensitivities, respected my rebellions, and never once made me feel small.

When he read in my diary that I liked Gavin, he didn't scold me. He encouraged me to work hard and get into the same college as him.

On the day of my coming-of-age celebration, Gavin's parents were in the middle of divorcing, and neither of them showed up.

During the group photos, everyone else had a parent beside them. He stood alone in a corner, a little lost.

My father walked over on his own and asked him to take a photo together.

That one moment brought us closer.

In Gavin's world, I went from a stranger to an ordinary friend.

Later, we really did get into the same college.

He studied art; I studied design.

The city where our school was sat over six hundred miles from home. We made the trip back and forth together and watched a lot of sunsets along the way.