When He Fell by Kate Hewitt

we can’t
not
talk about Ben. We can’t pretend he doesn’t exist, that he wasn’t Josh’s friend.
    Isn’t
Josh’s friend.
Is
.
    “I could go tomorrow evening,” I say. “I’ll have to call the school to find out which hospital—”
    “He’s at Mount Sinai Roosevelt,” Lewis says. He’s turned back to the puzzle.
    “Oh.” Then I can’t keep myself from asking, “How did you know that?”
    “I texted Maddie. She’d called me, anyway.”
    I suppress the flicker of unease this offhand admission causes me. He told me he was going to call her. This is not really a surprise. And yet there is something so familiar about the way he talks about her. I don’t think he even realizes it, how he says her name like he
knows
her.
    “I’ll check the visiting hours online,” I say.
    “Okay,” Lewis says as he fits a piece into the puzzle. He is not looking at me. “That’s a good idea.”
    I watch him for a moment, covertly searching for some reaction, something that will reveal how well he knows Maddie. I know I’m being paranoid; I know Lewis hasn’t really said anything to make me think he knows Maddie better than as the parent of his child’s friend. But I can’t help being afraid, because I’ve often wondered if Lewis loves me as much as I love him.
    Someone once told me that relationships are always unequal; one person loves the other more. I’m not sure what basis they had for that devastating bit of trivia, but in my and Lewis’s case I know I’m the one who loves more. I’d die without Lewis. For the three weeks he left me, when Josh was three, I felt as if I were dying. I
wanted
to die. I even thought about it, I’m ashamed to say. But we never talk about that time; we drew a line across it and it’s as if it never happened. We both wanted to move on, to forget.
    But I’ve never been able to forget.
    “Great,” I say into the silence, and the oven timer pings to tell me dinner is ready.
    Later, when I go into his room to tuck Josh into bed, I find him curled up on the window seat, his bony knees tucked into his chest as he stares out at the darkness.
    “Josh?” I try to keep my voice light, upbeat. “So, what do you want to do tomorrow?”
    “Go to the Lego Store.”
    Again?
“What about the Bronx Zoo? Or skating in Bryant Park? Or the Children’s Museum?”
    He turns to me, and I see that gleam in his eyes that I know well. My son can be silent, but he is also stubborn. “The Lego Store,” he says again, and I smile.
    “The Lego Store it is, then.” I pull back his duvet and beckon him. “Time for bed.”
    Slowly Josh uncurls himself from the window seat and walks towards the bed, dragging his feet.
    He slides into the bed and lies on his back, staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling. I tuck the duvet around him and wait; I sense he wants to say something, but I’m not going to push. I’m
not.
    “Josh?” I ask gently. “Do you have something you want to say?” So much for my resolutions.
    He takes a deep breath, and I brace myself, although for what I don’t know. For more silence? For a refusal? Or for something worse?
    “We were on the rocks,” he finally says, his voice so soft I strain to hear it.
    On the rocks?
It takes me a second to realize he means the rocks at Heckscher Playground, the towering rocks above the play structure that the children are never, ever allowed to climb on. They’re read the riot act about the rocks every day before they go out to recess; the playground supervisors specifically look for anyone clambering on those high boulders, the tops littered with drunks and broken glass.
    I sit on the edge of the bed, resting one hand on his rigid leg. “Why were you on the rocks?”
    “Ben wanted to climb up there.”
    I take a careful breath, my mind racing as I try to figure out how to handle this. “Have you gone up there before?”
    “No,” Josh says after a moment. “We never did. We know you’re not allowed to.”
    “Why did you that