He looks at me then, and suddenly I know that people are what you truly need to be afraid of. People with eyes that communicate. People who can hurt you so hard you’d wish you were never born.

“It all depends.”

I trip on a crack in the sidewalk, and Kit reaches out to steady me.

“On what?”

While I wait for him to answer, I notice the length and curl of his lashes, the downward tilt of full lips. I look away, try to focus on something else: a soggy half-eaten hot dog on the sidewalk, a woman’s mismatched socks peeking out from her tennis shoes. Things that don’t make me dizzy.

“On how my truth is received.”

I’m about to ask him to further expound, when he says he has to go.

“I have to meet my mom for lunch. She’s trying to get me to move back.”

“Oh,” I say. I like his mom already. “Moms usually know what’s best for you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“No,” I say. “If she’s anything like my mom, you probably shouldn’t listen to her.”

He laughs. “See you soon, Helena.”

Soon after, I hear from Della. Della, who I haven’t heard from in months. She texts to say that they broke up after a fight they had. When I don’t answer her texts right away she calls me.

“Is he there, Helena? Do you know?”

I catch sight of my own face in the mirror when I answer her; I look like a disgusted human. I don’t want to be in the middle of whatever they have going on. I don’t want to betray one for the other.

“You should call him,” I say. “Remember he’s disappeared before.”

“I have called him. Oh my God, Helena, I call every five minutes. He just said he needed some time away. Like, I don’t know how to do anything. I don’t even know how to pay my mortgage.”

I can hear the tears, the snot, the Della who sits in a robe and eats chocolate and frets. I feel guilty for not being there for her, but no, I am not everyone’s crutch. I am learning to walk on my own; they need to learn, too.

“You can figure things out until he comes back,” I say. “Your mom will help you.”

There’s a long pause before she says, “Have you seen him?”

“Yes,” I say. “Not that long ago. Walking down the street. He was going to see his mom.”

“Did he say anything? About me?”

“Not really. Just that you were on a break.”

Della starts to cry. I hold the phone away from my ear and chew vigorously on my lip. I am feeling two things: pity, which is truly a nasty, condescending thing to feel for someone, and opportunistic. I don’t want her to have him back. I don’t want her to convince him she can be different. I know she can’t.

“It’ll be okay,” I tell her. “If he needs time to figure things out, you have to give that to him. Don’t call every five minutes either. Try to spend some time … thinking.” After we hang up, she sends a text to thank me, and also to beg me to call with anything I hear. I want to tell her I’m not her personal gossip girl. I feel sick. Sick for Della, sick for myself. A little bit sick for Kit, but not much. He deserves to suffer.

June texts to tell me she saw Neil’s baby at the grocery store, and its head looks like a squash.

Is it a boy or girl? I ask.

J: It’s a squash!

News of Neil’s baby looking like something you can find in the produce section of the grocery store should make me happy. I feel nothing. I don’t care to revel in infant ugliness. I don’t care to think about Neil at all. What does that mean? Have I moved on from my hurt? And is squash a fruit or a vegetable?

I am just getting off work when I get a text from Kit. It’s a photo of a staircase covered in bright red leaves. I know it. I’ve passed by on occasion. I walk without really thinking about it, and when I get there, my steps falter. I find Kit Isley, sitting on the bottom stair, his head dipped toward the ground. He’s wearing a peacoat, and there’s gel in his hair. The leaves stir around him, the soft trembling of mottled red. A little tornado at his feet. I sigh. It’s okay to have an appreciation for something beautiful, so long as you know your place. I wish I could take a photo of him sitting among the crimson leaves. And why can’t I? I take out my phone and snap a picture that I can already tell will be blurry.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself.”

He stands up, hands in pocket. “You hungry?”

“Someone once told me I’m always hungry.” I smile. Kit smiles back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I wonder if he spoke to Della. Nothing like a good dose of Della to wipe you clear of joy. That was mean, I think, but also true.

We fall into step. He seems to know where he’s going so I let him lead. I’ve come to think of these streets as mine, but they are really Kit’s. I just followed his shadow here.

“You know,” he says. “I always thought you were beautiful, but this weather suits you. Wild hair and winter coats.”

“That’s a compliment only a writer could give,” I say. I can’t even look at him. I want to throw myself off the side of a building, or in front of a moving car. I’m fidgety all of a sudden, adjusting my purse, and hair, and face.

“Helena…?”

“Yeah…? What?”

He grins, knowingly. He makes me feel so transparent. It’s so vulnerable to be under his gaze, emotionally naked.