“That was true.”
“I know.” He wrapped his hands around his mug. “She said it. About this being my home. She said something like ‘at least I know where I stand with the house situation.’ Meaning you.”
I said: “What did you say?”
He said: “I told her the house is Maya’s and mine, and that I hadn’t been clear enough about that from the start, and that the way she talked to you about it wasn’t fair.”
I looked at him.
He said: “She got quiet. She didn’t apologize. But she got quiet in the way that means she heard something.”
“That’s something,” I said.
“I should have said it three months ago.”
“Yes,” I said. “You should have.”
He looked at the table. “I know.”
We sat with that for a moment.
“What I keep thinking about,” he said, “is that I asked you if she could come and you said yes, and then I sort of handed the whole thing over to you to manage and called it patience when it wasn’t working.”
I said: “It wasn’t patience. It was avoidance.”
“Yes.”
“I did it too,” I said. “Not the same way, but I kept accepting non-answers because I was afraid of what a direct conversation would cost.”
He said: “We’re both bad at it.”
“We’re not terrible at it,” I said. “We did have the conversation eventually.”
“After eleven weeks.”
“After eleven weeks.” I put my hand on his. “We’re going to get better at it sooner.”