“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Don’t move.”
“Alex—”
“I’m coming over.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
I was already pulling on jeans.
When I arrived twenty minutes later, every light downstairs was on.
Karen sat exactly where she had said she would, on the kitchen floor beside a shattered glass.
She wore gray sweatpants and one of Daniel’s old college shirts.
Her mascara had smeared beneath her eyes.
For the first time since I’d known her, she didn’t look composed.
She looked human.
I grabbed the broom.
“Don’t.”
She watched me sweep the glass.
“I can clean my own mess.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“Because you’re barefoot.”
She looked down.
“Oh.”
I finished sweeping.
Then I sat on the floor across from her.
Between us was the refrigerator light reflected in the hardwood.
Karen stared at me.
“I feel stupid.”
