Dad.
I answered immediately.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Arthur snapped. “Why do you always assume something happened?”
I almost laughed.
Because something always had.
His new television would not connect to the Wi-Fi.
For the next ninety minutes, I talked him through settings, router resets, network passwords, and firmware menus while Noah sat beside me reading a book.
Eventually the television connected.
My father said, “Finally.”
Not thank you.
Finally.
Then he hung up.
Noah closed his book.
“You know they almost never call you unless they want something.”
My chest tightened immediately.
“That’s not true.”
“When was the last time your dad called because he wanted to know how you were?”
“He asks.”
“When?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came.
Noah’s voice softened.
“I’m not insulting your family.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“I’m asking whether they support you the way you support them.”
“They’re just not very emotional.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
I stood up and carried my water glass into the kitchen because suddenly I needed distance from the conversation.
“You don’t understand how they are.”
Noah followed but stayed several feet away.
“I understand exactly how they are with you.”
I turned.
He continued carefully.
“When your mother needs money, she calls.”
I looked away.
“When Marcus needs a favor, he calls.”
Silence.
“When your father needs something repaired, he calls.”
“Families help each other.”
“I agree.”
Noah paused.
“When do they help you?”
The question followed me for months.
I hated him for asking it.
Not permanently.
Maybe for eleven minutes.
Because the answer was humiliating.
They didn’t.
Not emotionally.
Not financially.
Not practically.
When my laptop died during a major project, I put the $3,100 replacement on my business card and worked extra hours to pay it off.
Nobody offered help.
When I had pneumonia at twenty-six, Noah stayed with me for five days.
My mother texted once asking whether I thought I would still be able to help her compare health insurance plans that weekend.
When one of my largest clients unexpectedly terminated a contract, I did not tell my family because I knew the conversation would somehow become about whether I could continue funding the emergency account.
That realization should have changed everything.
It didn’t.
Not yet.
The real setup for the barbecue happened during a three-day trip Noah and I took to the Berkshires.
He booked a small cabin surrounded by pine trees.
No neighbors.
No meetings.
No family.
He made one request.
“Seventy-two hours.”
“For what?”
“Turn your phone off.”
I stared at him.
“Completely?”
“Yes.”
“What if something happens?”
“To whom?”
“My parents.”
“They have phones.”
“Marcus.”
“He has a phone.”
“What if somebody needs me?”
Noah looked at me with an expression that was somehow loving and exhausted at the same time.