Twenty-Eight
“What are you doing here?”
“I thought we could talk—”
“How did you know where I live?”
“I was here years ago, when you first moved in. I took a chance that you hadn’t left yet.”
I don’t remember Rob ever being here. This is very strange. “Rob, seriously, what do you want? If this is about rehashing old times,” I say, nodding at the flowers, “we covered that up in Canada.”
His face is red and tired, like he’s about to burst into tears and/or he’s had too much to drink. He doesn’t smell drunk, but the flowers dangle from his hand, like he’s about to drop them.
“Come in—I swear to god, if you try anything weird, I’ll hurt you.”
“Nothing weird. I promise.” He flattens his free hand over his heart. I wave him inside the apartment and close the door. He offers me the flowers
