let us in. That’s why the guy was probably on his phone, looking up who I was.
“Did I mess up?” she asks. It’s hard to miss the neediness in her voice.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Maybe Rob knew better. I had to see it. But you pushed me to do it.”
“I’m glad I did.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. This time I take her hand and am rewarded with a smile.
“When were you last here?” she asks as we get into the car.
“I came back at sixteen, after he died, when it was safe to.”
“Came back from where?”
“From the children’s home.”
“You went to a children’s home?”
I brace myself. “For a while.”
“How long?”
“A few months.”
“Why?”
I inhale a long breath. I can’t talk about it.
“I’m sorry,” she says, understanding.
“I was only there for a few months when the fucker died.” I remember hearing the news at the home. I remember being so happy that I thought my heart might burst.
“Oh,” Mari gasps. “You’ve had such an traumatic childhood.”
“But that bastard dying was the best thing.”
“Do you want to go by and see the children’s home?” she asks. “I can take you.”
“It’s closed down.”
“We could walk by, if it might help.”
“Help with what?” I snap. We face one another.
“I don’t know. I was only trying to help.”
She is trying to help. She always wants to help. She’s not the bad person in all this. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t snap at you.”
She takes my hand again. “It’s okay.”
“I want to go home.”
“There’s so much I don’t know about you, Ward,” she says as we drive away.
“It’s better that way.”
Chapter 37
MARI
He’s quiet all through the journey home. There are moments when he lets me in, and some moments when he shuts me out. I have no clue as to what I am to him; just a comfort in bed, or something more. It’s disconcerting, given the fact that I have always tried to be there for him, even though he’s not done the same for me.
He goes into his writing cave when we get home. I sense he is going through some pain and I want to make things right again. I want to make him not hurt but I can’t help him if he won’t let me.
Ward isn’t one to let me in on his thoughts and it’s a wonder he ever told me about his stepdad in the first place.
I decide to leave him alone and fix dinner. I baked bread this morning. Not just any bread, rosemary focaccia, because he casually mentioned a few days ago that he liked it. He said it was the one last good memory he had from his childhood.
Baking bread is so far from who I am and I barely recognize this new domestic goddess I have become—taking care of Ward, being supportive, being there for him so that he can do his work. This is everything I railed against—being a homemaker and putting my own goals aside for someone else—and yet there is something healing in our current setup. I remind myself that I am going through a journey, as is he. We’re just two people taking advantage of a unique situation.
It won’t last forever. Soon enough I will get back out there into the world and become a working, independent woman.
I’ve made homemade vegetable soup to go with it. Just as I finish heating it up, Ward pops into the kitchen. He announces that he is eating in the study, and mumbles something about behind on his writing.
He’s either lying or he doesn’t want me to be with him tonight, because I’m certain he told me earlier that he was on target. I understand his need to be alone, so I plate up his food and hand it to him. He thanks me for making the bread, takes his food and hastily leaves.
He has hurt me again. I thought I was helping him, I thought we were getting closer but I’m deluding myself as always.
I crave connection, that of the emotional kind, not so much the physical. The sex is great, but something is missing. Being stuck in here without having other people to bounce things off of is hard. I miss the water cooler conversations at work. I long for friends to catch up with during my lunch time and coffee breaks.
What Ward and I have is intense. Bottled up like concentrated perfume; overpowering, cloying and almost suffocating, almost. The type of stuff that renders a person unable to breathe.
This house harbors us. It closets and