Page 479 - A Little Life: A Novel

He shrank back. “I wasn’t trying to suggest that,” he said, but Willem
didn’t answer him, and finally, he did clean off his cuts, and then slid the
bag over toward Willem, who at last did the same, wincing as he did.

They sat there in silence for a long, long time, Willem still bent over, he
watching Willem. “I’m sorry, Willem,” he said.
“Jesus, Jude,” Willem said, a while later. “This really hurts.” He finally
looked at him. “How can you stand this?”
He shrugged. “You get used to it,” he said, and Willem shook his head.
“Oh, Jude,” Willem said, and he saw that Willem was crying, silently.
“Are you even happy with me?”

He felt something in him break and fall. “Willem,” he began, and then
started again. “You’ve made me happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”
Willem made a sound that he later realized was a laugh. “Then why are
you cutting yourself so much?” he asked. “Why has it gotten so bad?”
“I don’t know,” he said, softly. He swallowed. “I guess I’m afraid you’re
going to leave.” It wasn’t the entire story—the entire story he couldn’t say

—but it was part of it.
“Why am I going to leave?” Willem asked, and then, when he couldn’t
answer, “So is this a test, then? Are you trying to see how far you can push
me and whether I’ll stay with you?” He looked up, wiping his eyes. “Is that
it?”
He shook his head. “Maybe,” he said, to the marble floor. “I mean, not
consciously. But—maybe. I don’t know.”

Willem sighed. “I don’t know what I can say to convince you I’m not
going to leave, that you don’t need to test me,” he said. They were quiet
again, and then Willem took a deep breath. “Jude,” he said, “do you think
you should maybe go back to the hospital for a while? Just to, I don’t know,
sort things out?”
“No,” he said, his throat tightening with panic. “Willem, no—you won’t

make me, will you?”
Willem looked at him. “No,” he said. “No, I won’t make you.” He
paused. “But I wish I could.”
Somehow, the night ended, and somehow, the next day began. He was so
tired he was tipsy, but he went to work. Their fight had never ended in any
conclusive way—there were no promises extracted, there were no
ultimatums given—but for the next few days, Willem didn’t speak to him.

Or rather: Willem spoke, but he spoke about nothing. “Have a good day,”