"You have until tomorrow at ten," I said. "And then you and I are going over there together, whether you've talked to her or not."
He let out a breath that seemed to come from the bottom of his sneakers. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Thank you."
"Eat some chicken," I said. "And then go text her or whatever it is you do."
"We don't text," he said, and then looked like he wished he hadn't said it.
"You don't text," I repeated.
"Her mom reads her phone," he said. "Every night. It's a rule."
And that, right there, was the first crack of light under the door.
I didn't sleep much that night. I lay in bed next to the empty half where Wystan used to sleep, before he took the job in Denver and we found out, slowly and without much drama, that we were better as co-parents than as spouses, and I listened to the house. At about eleven-thirty I heard Dashiell's window slide open. I got up and stood in the dark hallway, my heart going, ready to stop him from doing whatever foolish romantic thing seventeen-year-olds do at eleven-thirty at night. But he didn't climb out. I heard the window close again after maybe a minute. I heard him get back into bed.