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facts.
    But you are Ducky the Understanding, friend to all, boyfriend to none.
    You nod. You say okay. You’re just finishing for the day.
    You go to the local bean ‘n’ brew, get cappuccinos, and stake out the bench.
    You say, “So, what’s up?”
    To your ENORMOUS, cowardly, what-a-rotten-friend-you-are relief, Amalia says, “It’s
    Maggie.”
    “Maggie,” you say, and let out a saved, whew, sigh.
    Because you (“Hi, I’m Ducky, the center of the known universe. Everything is about me”) were actually afraid she had come to talk to you about Sunny. And you.
    Amalia nods. She thinks you’re sighing in sympathy.
    “Yeah,” she says.
    Then she tells you about the hours Maggie spent at her house the night before, all torn up about her mother.
    She tells you that Maggie can’t take much more of this.
    She tells you that something’s got to give.
    “Maggie has to confront her home life or she’s gonna blow,” Amalia says. “Explode. Break down. Something. I don’t know what.”
    “As long as you’re there for her, maybe she won’t,” you say.
    Then you feel like a complete jerk.
    You tried to be there for Alex, and did it help? No. You couldn’t save him. Couldn’t help him.
    The best you could do was send him to the ER.
    And now you barely hear from him at the treatment center.
    Being there for someone is, in your opinion, not always the best advice.
    But what other advice can you offer?
    Amalia sighs. Big. “Yeah,” she says, her voice was unconvincing as your lame offer of
    sympathy.
    “You could … well, maybe you could talk to Mrs. Blume with Maggie. You know, be there for moral support.”
    “Somehow, I don’t think Maggie would go for that.”
    She’s right.
    So you decide to do the original, the obvious. You decide to change the subject. “Talked to Brendan last night,” you say. “He’s decent, you know?”
    “Yeah,” says Amalia, her tone even less convincing. Distinctly lacking in enthusiasm.
    “Yeah?” you say. “That’s it?”
    Relief at not being grilled about Sunny makes you bold. Giddy. Reckless.
    You say, “What’s going on, Amalia? With you and Brendan?”
    Your tone is no-nonsense. And authoritative.
    Very John Wayne.
    Amalia succumbs to your tough-guy act.
    She says, “Brendan is great.”
    “But?” you prompt.
    “But … he’s too great, you know? I mean, maybe he’s too good for me. It’s scary how nice he is, how … I mean, what if it doesn’t last? It’ll hurt. Big time. Why suffer if you don’t have to?”
    “Because you like Brendan?”
    “Yeah.” Like this is bad news.
    You want to tell her the bad news is when you don’t like someone. Someone you can count on.
    Someone who is like family to you.
    Big Amalia sigh. She adds, “I’m just going to try to keep it light.”
    You say, “C’mon, Amalia. Why be afraid of admitting you care about Brendan?”
    “I’m not afraid! It’s not that. Really,” she says. “It’s just … self-respect. Common sense.
    Reason.”
    “Nope. Fear,” you say. Fearlessly.
    She shakes her head, looks down. Doesn’t answer.
    “Don’t be afraid. If it’s right … you can’t be afraid.”
    (It’s when it is wrong that you should be afraid.)
    She jumps up. “Gotta go. Later,” she says, and hurries away without meeting your eyes.
    Was she crying?
    Good work, Ducky.
    But you know you’re right.
    Ask the love doctor. He’ll tell you the truth.
    Except about himself.
    Aug. 28
    WAY PAST MIDNIGHT
    The phone rings at 5 of midnight. This hour, you figure it’s the parents, still wrestling with that old time-zone problem of theirs.
    Another few years, they may get it.
    You also figure that your brother will sleep through the ringing. So you grab the phone and croak, “Hello?”
    “Ducky,” a strangled voice says.
    “It’s me,” you say, still half asleep and not quite sure of who is calling you.
    “It’s Maggie,” says the voice. Little. Scared. Tear-filled.
    Not like Maggie’s voice at