RIDING THE BUS home from Sarah’s, Timothy thought about how grateful he was to be married, how he wasn’t living alone like Harry, pining for a woman who didn’t love him. His life before Deborah had consisted of sitting on the couch playing video games in an apartment that smelled like dirty socks. Then she walked into his office. He smiled, thinking of their first date. They had both been a little drunk when they went back to her hotel room. In the morning, Timothy awoke to Deborah’s smiling face—a face that accepted his weight, his personal habits, his gaming—and hoped he’d spend the rest of his life with her.

Walking through the front door, Timothy called for Deborah but couldn’t find her. The car wasn’t in the driveway, and Timothy assumed she’d gone to the store. He opened the freezer and pulled out a frozen pizza. He was starving. Harry had punched Dennis before Timothy had taken two bites of couscous. Timothy’s stomach growled. He didn’t wait for the oven to preheat; he just slid the thin crust onto the oven rack and brewed a cup of tea.

Timothy sat at his desk, sipping his tea. His multiple monitors were black, his computer still sleeping. He was hesitant to turn it on. He hadn’t spoken with the members of his squad since Deborah suggested they see a marriage counselor. He wasn’t sure how he’d tell them he wasn’t going to the tournament. They’d be disappointed and probably kick him off the team, but the opportunity to salvage his marriage was more important than attaining gaming fame.

Timothy rested the mug on his leg. It warmed his thigh. He used to bring Deborah cups of tea when they first moved in together, the chamomile steam floating, the mug roasting his hands if he carried it by anything other than the handle. Deborah would curl up on the couch under the blanket her grandmother had knitted and read cozy novels for her book club. He would hand her the mug, then sit next to her with her feet nestled against his hip while he graded papers. Outside, the leaves would drift from the trees in the chilly Bloomington night, while Timothy and Deborah stayed toasty warm in their 900-square-foot starter home.

Timothy pulled a framed photo out of his desk drawer; it was a photo from their wedding, he and Deborah posing in a tux and white dress. He’d put it away when he started talking to Lexlitha, at first feeling unfaithful to Deborah, but then he’d left the photo in the drawer when it started to make him feel as though he were cheating on Lexlitha. Timothy held the photo and smiled, remembering their wedding. All their friends and family had gathered at the golf course, dancing and eating and laughing. Deborah had looked beautiful in her grandmother’s dress, like an angel. He was thinking about their first dance, how her cheek felt soft against his, when his phone buzzed.

Timothy didn’t recognize the number but answered it anyway.

“Timothy.” It was Deborah. “I need you to come pick me up.”

“Where are you?”

“I screwed up.” She elongated her S’s, something she did when she was drunk.

“Just tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you.”

“This other car—it came out of nowhere.”

“What did you do?” Timothy rubbed his forehead. He’d wondered if he would ever receive this call.

“And the driver was so not cool about it. She said she was going to sue me. Not cool at all.”

“Deb, I need you to focus and tell me where you are.”

“Then the cops showed up. You can guess how that went.” She laughed some more.

“Are you in jail? Tell me you’re not in jail.”

“Okay, I’m not in jail,” she said, as though she were a sarcastic teenager. “Just kidding. I’m totally in jail.”

“How much did you have to drink?”

“Not enough. I could still remember your number.”

“And the car?” Timothy asked.

“The cops have it. Fucking cops!” she shouted, her voice reverberating as though she’d yelled down a tiled hall and not into the phone. Then she laughed as if she’d just heard the world’s funniest joke.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this. Are we going to be able to make the appointment?”

“Appointment? What are you talking about, fatty?”

“With the marriage counselor.”

“Yeah, I made that up. Why would I want to see a fucking marriage counselor?”

From the kitchen, black fumes flowed into the living room, followed by the chirp of the smoke detector. His pizza. He’d forgotten all about it. Timothy ran to the kitchen and opened the oven door. Smoke billowed into the room.

“What’s that noise? Is that the fire alarm?”

“My pizza’s burning.” Timothy waved a dish towel in the air, fanning the plumes collecting near the ceiling.

“Jesus, you can’t even do that right.”

“We were going to try to fix this divide between us.”

“You want to fix this? Stop being a loser. For ten years, I waited for you to get your shit together. Every single day, I waited for you to tell me you were taking steps to be tenured or maybe writing an article about some research you were doing, and every day I woke up to the husband I had the day before—a guy who’s more interested in living in a fantasy world than the real one.”

“Deborah, that’s not fair.” Timothy blistered his fingers on the black disc that once was his pizza as he tossed it, charred crumbs scattering across the counter.

“I’m sick of it. I’m sick of supporting you. I’m sick of being alone.”

“What are you saying?” Timothy asked, stumbling back into the living room.

“That first day we met, when I asked you out—Jesus, I had to ask you out; you couldn’t even do that—you know why I did it? Because I felt sorry for you. You were just this doughy man sweating in his chair. I tried to guide you, push you toward making choices that would benefit your career, benefit us. And you know what you did? You sat on your fat ass, letting every opportunity pass you by. Ten years later, you’re still the sweaty, pathetic loser you were when we met. Geoff Richter was right about you. I should have seen it. I can’t believe I wasted ten years on you.”

“You…you never believed in me?” Timothy asked, his voice soft, an almost inaudible whimper.

“Ten years, Timothy! Ten fucking years!” There was some rustling in the background. “Uh-oh,” Deborah said, not sounding concerned, “I think they’re coming for me.”

“Time’s up,” a man with a granite voice said.

“Hey, let me go!” Deborah said. “Fucking pigs!”

Timothy heard her laughter fade as—he assumed—she was dragged back to the drunk tank. Then a beep and silence as someone hung up the phone in the police station.

Timothy collapsed onto the living room carpet, the smoke alarm still blaring. From the moment he’d met Deborah, he’d assumed she supported him, believed in him. And he, in turn, supported her, letting her process her grief in her own, alcohol-induced way. But her side of their marriage had been founded on the premise that Timothy was another project for her to fix. Even if her comments were an inebriated exaggeration, she’d finally told him how she felt. Timothy ran his hand over the carpet, recoiling as he pricked his finger on a piece of broken glass.

The fire alarm continued to scream. Timothy stomped into the kitchen and flapped his towel until the siren stopped. The blackened, dried-up pizza sat crumbled on the counter—his inedible dinner, an overcooked disc of dough. Normally, this would have bothered him because he wouldn’t have anything to eat while gaming, but he tapped the black slab against the laminate, and laughed as it broke in half.

Timothy had often imagined how he’d react if Deborah was ever arrested for drunk driving. He’d run various scenarios in his mind. In one, he dashed down to jail and bailed her out; in another, he let her stew for several hours, waiting for her to sober up and realize her alcoholism was ruining their lives. Despite the subtle variations, each scenario ended with him rescuing her from having to share a cell with someone who’d chugged a bottle of cough syrup and slapped her boyfriend with a ham and cheese sandwich. Thinking about her admitted animosity, Timothy realized he had another option, one that would give Deborah a chance to watch him take advantage of one of his opportunities.

Timothy group-texted his team, apologizing for his recent absence and telling them he was looking forward to seeing them in Chicago. Stan “The Savage One” Desmond and David “Battleship Dick” Gilbert immediately messaged back, excited about the tournament, but nothing from Lexlitha. Timothy expected this; he didn’t think she’d want to talk to him right now.

He then called Harry and explained everything.

“I’m really sorry,” Harry said. “Do you have some thoughts on a future course of action?”

“I don’t know,” Timothy said. “I really haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Deborah was drinking so much?”

There were an infinite number of responses Timothy could have said to Harry—that Harry was self-absorbed, that he’d been singularly focused on his paper (Timothy still didn’t understand what the enigmatic paper actually was; all he knew was that it was something Harry used as an excuse for not being much of a friend), that Harry was only ever worried about getting back together with Amanda. But, despite Harry’s eight-year trend of being a bad friend, Timothy said, “I don’t know. You were so busy. I didn’t think you’d want to be bothered with it.”

“Tim,” Harry said. “You’re my best friend. You know I’m here for you.”

“Do you still want to go to Chicago? My tournament starts on Friday. My car is impounded, so we’ll need to rent a car.”

“No need. I’ll call Dennis.”

“Didn’t you just get into a fight with him?”

“Dennis and I have a very forgiving relationship. I forgive him for temporarily safeguarding Amanda’s affections, and I know he forgives me for punching him in the face.”

Harry’s explanation lacked plausibility. Timothy had sat with him after the divorce. He’d seen Harry’s despair as they binge-watched Cape Canaveral: TOS and noticed his unfocused eyes as the crew fought their way across time and space for seventy-two episodes and one Christmas special. Timothy also hosted a Cape Canaveral movie marathon when Amanda started dating Dennis, the only guests being Harry and Sarah, who both spent the six hours dissecting every flaw of Amanda’s rebound guy. Additionally, Timothy had witnessed Dennis’s indifference toward Harry. Recalling the way Dennis would grunt any time Harry’s name was mentioned, Timothy was dubious Dennis would help them.

“Don’t fret,” Harry said. “I performed the necessary calculations while we were talking, and I am wholly convinced in this course of action.”

Harry promised to call as soon as he heard from Dennis.

Timothy tossed his phone on the couch and went back into the kitchen. The smoke had dissipated, leaving the kitchen smelling like scorched pepperoni. Timothy pulled another frozen pizza from the freezer and set the timer on the oven, determined not to burn this one.