heâd gotten there, on top of this guy he was strangling.
      He let go.
      He moved off of Brian, who sank coughing to the walkway. The crowd moved in then, surrounding Brian, offering him drinks and assistance. Now, they cared.
      He came over to me, tried to touch me. I moved away. âDonât,â I said.
      He looked at me again, then, his eyes still glossy but now tameâremorseful. âDoll ⦠Iâm sorry. I donât know why â¦.â
      âJoey, you almost killed him.â
      âNo ⦠yeah, I know. I donât know what happened to me â¦.â
      âGee, maybe that rum you were guzzling happened to you.â I started walking. I shouldâve done it earlier.
      God.
      Someone had almost died.
      Because of me.
      He followed me through the streets, all the way home. âDoll, Doll, come back. Iâm sorry,â he kept repeating. His voice tapered, getting lower and lower until it dropped off completely, leaving him silent behind me except for the sound of his scuffling sneakers and his labored breathing.
      At least he kept his distance.
      At least he didnât try to touch me again.
      Halfway down my driveway I turned and saw him there. Illuminated in streetlight, peering through my gate, hands gripping the bars. Lost. Forsaken. I almost gave in, went back to him. But then I thought of those hands clenching Brianâs neck. I thought of Brianâs veins bulging between those fingers, trying to flow.
      I shivered, went inside.
      For a week he called my cell phone over and over, leaving apologetic, pleading messages.
      I finally picked up. Iâm not sure why. Maybe those things they say about time are true. Or maybe I just missed him more than I hated what heâd done.
      Heâd never do that again, he swore. Heâd stop drinking the rum. I was right, it was the rum for sure, he agreed. He said for now on, heâd only drink beer.
      For him, that was something.
      I forgave him.
      That night, right before I went to sleep, I opened up my hope chest, slipped in a paper. It read, âI wish Joey would stop drinking.â
      But even as I closed my trunk, I knew he wouldnât. I knew he wouldnât because of what heâd said, about the drinking and smoking weed getting him through. I knew there was something eating away at him, gnawing bit by bit at his soul.
      I just didnât know what it was.
      The smell of pancakes wafts through our kitchen as Mom stacks them up. Dad blink, blinks at me. I stare away, at an orange teapot, complete with little pockmarks all over it, just like a real orange. Whoever made it mustâve pecked away at the orange with a mini-spear or something.
      You have to give those teapot sculptors credit.
      Theyâre good.
      I drift back to a third memory. Last Saturday, two weeks after the incident on the bridge. Joey and I had seen each other every day since Iâd forgiven him, but it had taken me a while to feel comfortable letting him touch me. He respected me, he tried nothing. He was just happy to be with me. Finally, on Thursday I let him hold my hand again. I slipped it to him while we were walking back to my house, and it was there againâthat magic. It was like nothing had happened, nothing had changed between us. That made me relax completely, and I asked if heâd like to take
      He let go.
      He moved off of Brian, who sank coughing to the walkway. The crowd moved in then, surrounding Brian, offering him drinks and assistance. Now, they cared.
      He came over to me, tried to touch me. I moved away. âDonât,â I said.
      He looked at me again, then, his eyes still glossy but now tameâremorseful. âDoll ⦠Iâm sorry. I donât know why â¦.â
      âJoey, you almost killed him.â
      âNo ⦠yeah, I know. I donât know what happened to me â¦.â
      âGee, maybe that rum you were guzzling happened to you.â I started walking. I shouldâve done it earlier.
      God.
      Someone had almost died.
      Because of me.
      He followed me through the streets, all the way home. âDoll, Doll, come back. Iâm sorry,â he kept repeating. His voice tapered, getting lower and lower until it dropped off completely, leaving him silent behind me except for the sound of his scuffling sneakers and his labored breathing.
      At least he kept his distance.
      At least he didnât try to touch me again.
      Halfway down my driveway I turned and saw him there. Illuminated in streetlight, peering through my gate, hands gripping the bars. Lost. Forsaken. I almost gave in, went back to him. But then I thought of those hands clenching Brianâs neck. I thought of Brianâs veins bulging between those fingers, trying to flow.
      I shivered, went inside.
      For a week he called my cell phone over and over, leaving apologetic, pleading messages.
      I finally picked up. Iâm not sure why. Maybe those things they say about time are true. Or maybe I just missed him more than I hated what heâd done.
      Heâd never do that again, he swore. Heâd stop drinking the rum. I was right, it was the rum for sure, he agreed. He said for now on, heâd only drink beer.
      For him, that was something.
      I forgave him.
      That night, right before I went to sleep, I opened up my hope chest, slipped in a paper. It read, âI wish Joey would stop drinking.â
      But even as I closed my trunk, I knew he wouldnât. I knew he wouldnât because of what heâd said, about the drinking and smoking weed getting him through. I knew there was something eating away at him, gnawing bit by bit at his soul.
      I just didnât know what it was.
      The smell of pancakes wafts through our kitchen as Mom stacks them up. Dad blink, blinks at me. I stare away, at an orange teapot, complete with little pockmarks all over it, just like a real orange. Whoever made it mustâve pecked away at the orange with a mini-spear or something.
      You have to give those teapot sculptors credit.
      Theyâre good.
      I drift back to a third memory. Last Saturday, two weeks after the incident on the bridge. Joey and I had seen each other every day since Iâd forgiven him, but it had taken me a while to feel comfortable letting him touch me. He respected me, he tried nothing. He was just happy to be with me. Finally, on Thursday I let him hold my hand again. I slipped it to him while we were walking back to my house, and it was there againâthat magic. It was like nothing had happened, nothing had changed between us. That made me relax completely, and I asked if heâd like to take
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