I didn’t answer. The silence lasted for a few more miles—which took almost a half hour in this damn traffic. Finally Jordan cleared his throat. “So you said you don’t trust her. This must mean you blame her for it…and if that’s—”

“I don’t blame her. But yeah, I don’t trust her. It’s more…general. I don’t trust that she’s not going to shred me again. That she doesn’t believe in this enough to—”

He laughed—laughed—at me. “Damn, Adam, that’s such a pussy thing to say.”

I clenched my jaw, gripped the steering wheel and ran my mind over the last few things I’d just said. “Adam’s afwaid he’s gonna get huwt. Poow widdle Adam.”

“Do you need me to let you out here? I think you can thumb a ride home with a serial killer or something,” I ground out.

“I don’t mean to be a dick but—”

“Too late—”

“You need to sac up, dude. Whenever you put yourself in a serious relationship, you run the risk of getting hurt. It’s how it works.”

“But usually you trust the other person not to do it.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. And what makes you think she will? Because of last time? You mean when she was scared out of her mind with a life-or-death diagnosis right after breaking up with her boyfriend? You really think that’s a time to judge how someone’s going to act under more normal circumstances?”

I swallowed, suddenly feeling like a dick myself.

“Here’s the deal…and you can consider the source and shitcan this advice if you want, but here’s Uncle Jordan’s take on things. It doesn’t matter who the person is, when you make a commitment like being in a relationship, you are always going to open yourself up to be shredded. It’s the nature of the beast.”

I turned and looked at him but didn’t reply, adjusting my sunglasses. The traffic was starting to loosen up and we’d made it up to about twenty miles per hour with not a brake light in sight.

“She hurt you before. I get it. You hurt her too, right?”

I nodded.

“I’m your money guy so I’m going to put this in terms that are familiar to me. You need to look at this like a cost versus value decision. Is the risk you take of getting hurt worth the benefit of what you get from having her in your life? If yes, then stay with her, be with her and try to make it work. If no, then end it.”

“I guess that’s what I have to figure out.”

“Yeah. But for what it’s worth I thought you two were good together, for all that it irritated me.”

The rest of our trip devolved into bouts of silence or small talk and I was relieved. Jordan’s words were abrasive but not unwelcome. I wasn’t above admitting that sometimes I needed to be called on my shit. And I was sick of licking my wounds in silence.

So to get over the bouts of loneliness—especially on the weekends—I went over to my uncle’s house for Sunday dinner. They all knew about Emilia being up in Anza with Kim, of course, so no one asked after her—not even Britt’s kids, so I had to give props to their mom for schooling them before hand on that.

After dinner, we sat on the couch, one boy on either side of me while we played Mario Kart on the console. They thought it was hilarious to play teams and gang up on me. After my second victory—this one by the skin of my teeth, they gave up.

I put a hand on each of their heads as they tried to wrestle me down. They lost at that game, too. I loved those kids—even when DJ was trying unsuccessfully to shove his fingers up my nose. And given the state I was in lately, as I sat back and watched them get involved in game of checkers, I let myself think about the fact that at this time, I might have been an expectant father in other circumstances.

I’d never given myself the chance to even consider that possibility. The situation had been so dire. My every thought and goal had been toward Emilia’s survival. And when she’d been around, I’d never let myself go there, even after we knew she was healthy. Was it fair, now, to regret what I might never have after urging her to do what she did? When I gave them their hugs goodbye, I couldn’t ignore that little pinch that reminded me of my own loss. And that date—that date that Emilia had recited in the doctor’s office on that bleak morning: August 18. The due date.

I hung around after Britt and the kids left. Liam had already taken off and I think Peter could tell that I wanted to talk because he went to the fridge without saying a word, pulled out two beers, opened them and sat next to me on a stool at the kitchen counter. We sipped in awkward silence for the first few minutes before I cleared my throat.