The pub where Leo played darts was called the Grizzly Bear. It sat on a side street between an old hardware store and a music shop, with a painted wooden sign that had faded from years of rain and sunlight. The place smelled of fried potatoes, dark beer, and the lemon-scented cleaner the staff used on the tables after closing. The stools were mismatched, the dartboard had been repaired more times than anyone admitted, and there was a small fireplace that looked decorative in summer. It was nothing like the polished wine bars Chloe had preferred, and I liked it immediately.
The first time I went, Leo handed me three darts and gave instructions so complicated that I forgot them before throwing the first one. My opening shot hit the wall beside the board, and a man at the next table applauded as though I had done something remarkable. Mike laughed until he had to sit down. I laughed with him, a full unguarded laugh that came from somewhere deeper than the polite smiles I had been producing for weeks. When we left, Leo told me I would become tolerable at darts if I kept practicing, which was his way of asking me to come back.
I did keep going back. On Wednesdays, if work allowed, we met at the Grizzly Bear for a casual game and dinner. The bartender learned that I preferred something light and did not want an argument about the merits of darker beer. I learned that Leo played badly when he was hungry and that Mike could become intensely competitive over games he claimed not to care about. Those evenings were not an escape from reality; they were part of making a new one. They reminded me that there were rooms where nobody expected me to shrink to keep the peace.
One Friday, an old friend from college named Nina joined us after moving back to the city. She asked about Chloe because she had met us together several times and had no reason to know anything had changed. I told her we had separated and that I was doing all right, then waited for the inevitable demand for details. Instead she simply said she was sorry and asked whether I wanted another plate of fries. The relief I felt was almost embarrassing. I had forgotten that people could accept a boundary without treating it as an invitation to challenge it.
The second month began with the first genuinely good weekend I could remember having by myself. I spent Saturday morning wandering a farmers market, bought ingredients for a meal I had never cooked before, and went to a bookstore without anyone telling me I already owned enough books. I called my mother while walking home, and she listened to me describe the new neighborhood as though the bakery and the park were landmarks in a country she hoped to visit. She asked whether I was lonely, and I told her sometimes. Then I added, truthfully, that I was less alone with myself than I had been while arguing to be understood.