“This is a random question, but I was wondering how Bernard James from room 206 is?”

“Oh . . . um.” She pauses.

“Off the record, of course,” I say. “He’s actually my boyfriend’s father, and I can’t get ahold of my boyfriend and am getting worried. His name is Henley James. Have you seen him?”

“Oh . . . ,” she replies. “You might want to come down here.”

“What’s happening?”

“Mr. James’s room is being cleaned out.”

My eyes widen. There’s only one reason someone cleans out a room.

No.

“He died?” I gasp.

“You didn’t hear it from me.”

My heart stops.

No.

“I’m on my way.” I hang up, grab my keys, and run for the door.

I walk down the corridor with a deep sense of dread. I have no idea what I’m about to walk into.

Only that Henley hasn’t called to tell me and his phone is now turned off.

Henley being Henley, I’m assuming he wants to deal with this alone.

Tough titties. He’s got me now.

I get to the door and stand outside as I peer in through the glass window.

Henley is methodically taking clothes out of the closet, folding them, and putting them into a box.

He’s emotionless, collected.

His silhouette blurs as the lump in my throat closes over.

I knock softly, and he glances up and sees me. Before he stops himself, I see a fleeting flash of anger across his face. “Come in,” he calls in a clipped tone. He continues to fold the clothes without looking up.

He’s on autopilot. Cleaning is his way of controlling the situation.

I brace myself; I don’t even know if I’ve done the right thing by coming. I just knew I didn’t want him to be alone while doing this. I open the door, walk in, and close it behind me. “Hi,” I say softly.

“You’ve heard the news, no doubt,” he snaps as he angrily flicks a pair of pants.

I stay silent as I watch him.

“You can go home. I’m fine.” He flicks the pants again as if to get something off them.

My heart breaks.

“It’s for the best, anyway.” He keeps folding the clothes. “He had no quality of life for a long time.”

I go to sit on the bed.

“Don’t sit there,” he barks.

I quickly stand back up.

“I want to . . .” He opens and closes his hands by his sides, highly agitated. “I need to change the linens.”

He’s skating along the edge of sanity.

I stand still, unsure what to do. “What happened?” I whisper.

“He’s dead. But you already know that.” He flicks the pants again.

“How did he die?” I ask a little stronger.

“He had an aneurysm.”

My heart is racing as I watch him. He’s like a bomb about to explode.

“I’m so sorry, Henley.”

“Don’t be.” He flicks the pants again without even looking at me. “I just need to clean out this room, and then I can move on.”

“Come here.” I go to hug him.

He pulls away from me. “Don’t. The last thing in the world that I want is to hug it out. Go home, Juliet,” he snaps in frustration.

God, how do I deal with this?

“Okay, I will,” I whisper. “Can I help a little before I go?”

“No.” He flicks a T-shirt in the air. “I’ve got it.”

Maybe coming here wasn’t the right thing to do.

“I’ll clean the bathroom,” I offer.

“No, Juliet,” he yells. “How many times do I have to tell you? Go the fuck home.”

He’s angry.

My eyes well with tears for him. He is feeling so out of control in the situation. I don’t blame him. I’m feeling pretty out of control here myself.

“I’m not going anywhere, Henley,” I fire back. “If you think I’m leaving you alone right now, you are sadly mistaken.”

His furious eyes rise to meet mine. “Leave or I’m calling security.”

What the hell?

“Hen.”

“I mean it. I’m fine. I want to do this alone.” He flicks a T-shirt. “I’ll come over later when I’ve dealt with all of this.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yep.” He puts a pile of T-shirts into a suitcase.

I watch him for a moment, unsure whether to leave. He wants to do this alone; I think I need to respect his wishes and give him some space.

“Okay.” I walk over to him. “Can I have a kiss goodbye?”

He pecks me quickly on the cheek.

“You’ll be over later?” I ask.

“Yes.” Without making eye contact, he goes back to folding.

“I’ll cook us dinner.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He’s coming over afterward. I feel a little better, but I really don’t want to leave him here. “I love you.”

“You too,” he says, distracted.

With one last long look at my dear heartbroken man, I walk out the door. This is a complete nightmare.

I peek into the oven and then at the clock: 7:46 p.m.

Where is he?

He hasn’t returned from the nursing home—hasn’t been home at all—and I’m trying so hard to give him some space, but I’m really worried about him. It’s a fine line between caring and smothering. I’m going to call him; I dial his number and wait as it rings.

“Hello, you’ve reached Henley James. Leave a message.”

My stomach drops. Fuck.

Why did I leave him at the nursing home? What on earth was I thinking?

I should have been there to support him. I should have stayed.

He was going to call security.

I feed Barry and fuss about some more. It’s 8:30 p.m. now, and still no sign. I call him again, and he answers on the first ring. “Hi.”

I close my eyes in relief. “Hi, babe, are you close?”

“Yeah, around the corner.”

“Okay, see you soon.” Thank god. I’ve been having a minor panic attack all day.

Ten minutes later, he drives onto the street and pulls into his garage. I peek through the curtains as I watch him walk over. I open the screen as he solemnly walks up the front veranda. He kisses me quickly as he walks past me into the house.

I roll my eyes as I pretend not to notice. He’s here. That’s all that matters.

He walks into the bathroom and washes his hands and comes back out. “Something smells good,” he says as he looks everywhere but at me.

“Hope you’re hungry?”

“Starving. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

My heart sinks. “Sit down, sweetie.” I pull a chair out for him, and he sits at the dining table. I begin to serve our dinner. I don’t know what to say or do. Do I bring it up, or do I pretend it hasn’t happened, like he is? “Did you do everything that you wanted to today?” I ask.

“Uh-huh.”

“We can go through the things over the weekend and sort them.”

“I’ve donated everything to charity.”

“What?”

“I dropped it off at the Goodwill store around the corner on the way home.”

My eyes well with tears as I serve the peas. He gave away all his father’s things.

“The photo albums?”

“Gone. I don’t want them.”

How could he?

He didn’t. Surely, he didn’t. Nobody is that cold.

Just stay calm . . . he’s pushing you on purpose. This is dysfunctional Henley James at his very best.