The Blessings of the Animals: A Novel - By Katrina Kittle Page 0,25
me?”
“Always.”
He laughed. She couldn’t tell the truth because that went against the rules. Women had to be chosen. Men got to do the choosing, but women had to wait for someone to want them.
At a Girl’s Night Out, Aurora had asked her once, “Why don’t you propose to Nick?”
But the idea was preposterous. That wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
Sometimes Aurora and Helen got on her nerves. Like Helen had any room to talk, since she was married. Helen asked, “What difference does it make? You love Nick, right?”
“Of course I do,” Olive had said.
“You’re happy, you’re having fun. How do you think marriage is going to change that?”
Olive hated questions like that, especially from a married woman, for Christ’s sake. Marriage changed everything. It would say to the world that Olive was worthy, that she was partnered in a life that expected every grownup to be partnered. It said she was a success. Complete.
And yes, yes, yes, of course she could agree with Aurora, who’d said, “There are many paths to committed and satisfying relationships. Not just marriage.” But deep in Olive’s guts, there was something about the public, societal declaration of permanence she needed in order to consider a relationship “real.” Not being married—or at least engaged—made her feel fundamentally unloved, unworthy, and unnecessary. No matter how great the sex was.
Really, did Nick think she would just keep on dating him indefinitely? She wanted to be married. She wanted to have children. If that’s not what he wanted, it was time to move on. She’d tell him on the way home.
She leaned her forehead against the glass and watched the shopping malls zipping by. Christ, that would be awful. Starting again. Dating. There was nothing so demeaning as being a single woman over forty. She’d read desperation was a turnoff, but here she’d invested nearly three years acting as laid-back as she could—and for what?
Nick was grinning. Just pleased as fucking punch. Not a care in the world. Did she even like him? They had nothing in common. She didn’t speak Latin. Or any foreign language, except a bit of Italian. He spoke Italian better than she did. He spoke five languages. He liked grammar and golfing and the goddamn opera. She liked sudoku and yoga and jazz clubs.
But she also liked having someone. She liked holding his hand when they went for coffee. She liked being in a pair.
Even if they weren’t a match.
Chapter Eight
I CHECKED MY E-MAIL AND CELL PHONE OBSESSIVELY, BUT there was still no word from Bobby. Gabriella flew to the landline every time it rang. She carried her cell phone from room to room, leaving it beside her while we ate. Bobby’s treatment of me was one thing, but his self-absorbed insensitivity to our daughter made me nauseous with anxiety.
I went out to do the morning feed a full hour earlier than I usually did—and ended up waking every single animal. I attempted to groom the biter, but he shied away from me and threatened to kick, so I leaned on his fence—the electric off—to contemplate my next move.
He faced me, his whole body hunched and defensive. I understood—abandonment hurt.
When he stepped toward me, I hid my surprise and stood still. He took another step, then another. I didn’t breathe as he flared his nostrils to snuff my hair, my head, my shoulders.
Go ahead. Bite me. I longed for him to leave me looking as bleeding and wounded as I felt.
Raw, open sores peeped from where his too-big halter rubbed across the gaunt bones of his face. His forelock and mane dangled in dreadlocks of mud. But through this disguise of neglect and cruelty, anyone could see he was magnificent. “Hey, beautiful,” I whispered.
He tossed his head up and down violently, the way a person might shake out a dusty rag. Then he wheeled around and let loose with one mighty kick before he tore across the small paddock. The little shit’s hoof struck the fence just a foot away from my left shoulder.
WHEN GABBY LEFT FOR SCHOOL—HER RED, SWOLLEN EYES belying her “fine”—I called Bobby’s cell, not caring about the hour, and told his voice mail: “You need to talk to Gabriella. Call her, meet with her, something. She deserves more than a message left on her phone.”
At the clinic, I didn’t tell anyone what had happened. I was partly following my mother’s advice, but mostly I still couldn’t believe this really had happened.