He was fine. He was always fine, at least in the vocabulary we used together.
“Is this stupid?”
****
For the first few weeks, though, he came home talkative in a way I hadn’t seen since middle school. There was a girl. Her name was Ava.
“She has this laugh,” he told me one night, standing in the pantry doorway with a granola bar he wasn’t eating. “Like, she doesn’t even try to be funny, she just laughs at other people’s stuff, and you feel picked.”
“Picked?”
“Like, chosen. To be laughed with.”
“It’s sweet.”