Once, I knew the word immediately and nearly supplied it.
Eliam glanced at me.
Neither of us spoke.
Frank tried again.
Then he found it himself.
“‘You’re my best buddy.'”
He sat back.
“‘You’re my best buddy.'”
For several seconds, nobody said anything.
Then Frank wiped his cheek with one finger.
“Kid still draws terrible dinosaurs.”
I laughed.
Later, while Eliam packed his laptop, Frank nodded toward him.
“Everybody wants to give me the word.”
“Kid still draws terrible dinosaurs.”
I looked at my husband.
Frank added, “Your husband was the first person stubborn enough to wait for me to find it.”
***
On the drive home, Eliam apologized.
“I should’ve told you I was on leave and that somebody needed me. I could’ve stopped there.”
“Yes.”
Eliam apologized.
“I was afraid you’d ask questions.”
“I probably would’ve.”
He waited.
“I don’t need every secret somebody trusts you with,” I said. “But I need to know when my life is being rearranged around one.”
“You’re right.”
“I was afraid you’d ask questions.”
“And I shouldn’t have followed you,” I admitted.
Eliam looked over.
“I understand why.”
“I know. I still shouldn’t have.”
***
The next morning, he picked up his laptop and keys.
Same routine.
“I shouldn’t have followed you.”
This time he stopped at the door.
“I’m going to the learning center.”
“Frank?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything you can’t tell me?”
“Most of it.”
“Good.”
“I’m going to the learning center.”
I pointed toward the counter.
“These actually do need to go with you.”
His medication.
Eliam laughed and pocketed it.
A few days later, he sent me a photograph.
“These actually do need to go with you.”
