41. Chapter 41
Silence isn’t the punishment she thinks it is.
Two days pass without either of us speaking, and I allow them to. I do not fill the space or try to correct it, I just let it exist as it is. Because forcing resolution before our little system settles will only produce false outcomes.
Sadie moves through the cabin with a concentrated kind of effort though. She doesn’t overtly slam doors or provoke, but she’s making herself known. Even if for the most part, she just paints smaller things and sleeps the majority of the time. She certainly doesn’t look at me unless necessary.
That, more than the crowbar or painting, is what registers.
I don’t believe she is afraid of me by any means, but she’s content withholding.
I sit at the table the second night, hands folded loosely in front of me, listening to the wind push through the trees outside. The cabin creaks in response, old wood adjusting to the pressure the outside world places on it. It’s a sound I’ve come to appreciate for its honesty.
My eyes flick to where Sadie stands at the counter with her back to me, rinsing a mug that does not need rinsing for what might be the third time. Her shoulders are tense and her movements practiced—that is entirely my fault.
I do not apologize often. Not because I’m incapable, but because most apologies tend to be transactional in nature. They exist to smooth over discomfort rather than address the actual cause. They are specifically designed to end conversations, not deepen them.
This one needs to be different.
“Sit,” I say into the quiet.
She stills and her head turns back to me, just enough to look at me from the corner of her eye. I search for the challenge there and don’t find one, but there isn’t invitation either.
“Why?” She mutters and reaches for a rag beside the sink.
“Because I’m going to speak and I would prefer you not feel cornered when I do.” I murmur.
She gives me a soft exhale through her nose and sets the mug down. She doesn’t sit where I expect her to—across from me—but instead takes the chair beside the window, legs drawn up, and arms wrapped loosely around them. It’s defensive, but not entirely closed off. So, I take what I can get.
“I did not destroy your painting because it was inaccurate,” I murmur gently. “Nor because it was cruel. I did it because it was precise.”
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t speak.
“I burned it because I was exposed and I’m not one to be that often. I do not experience my past as pain in the way you might expect. It is not a wound I revisit emotionally, and to best explain it… I just see it as information and context.” I explain to her the best way that I can.
“Sort of seems like you don’t like being interpreted,” she mutters, her mouth curving.
“I do not, because interpretation removes my control.” I agree.
“Let’s just agree that you weren’t mad at me in that moment, but mad that I knew where to look.” She muses.
I exhale, “yes.”
I watch as the tension bleeds out of her in increments as she pushes up from her seat and walks around the table, plopping back against it. Reaching out, I wrap my hands around her waist and pull her between my knees.
“I want to make it very clear that I didn’t destroy it to punish you. I destroyed it because leaving it intact would have allowed it to exist as commentary.” I stroke my thumbs to her hipbones over her tee and she purses her lips.
“You could have just told me instead of burning it all down. That whole ‘communication’ thing you want me to work on swings both ways, Alex.” She whispers and settles her hands down onto my shoulders.
“I could have, and you could have chosen something else to paint.” I muse.
“Fair,” she murmurs.
“I will say it was clarifying,” I add and squeeze her hips.
“How so?”
“Just reminded me that you aren’t this pretty little ball of sunshine is all.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you preferred the teeth,” she grins and squeezes my shoulders.
“I do prefer the teeth. I just wanted to apologize because I failed to account for your investment.”
She sighs low. “You mean my time.”
“Yes, and your intent.” I pull her a little deeper between the V of my knees. To my relief she lets me.
“I’ll admit it was a fucked-up way to try and connect,” she murmurs and I nearly shiver when her hands slide to cup the sides of my neck. Her fingers tangling lightly in the dark hair at my nape.
“I’m not asking you to stop looking, nor am I asking you to avoid subjects that revoke response.” I add softly.
“I know you’re not,” she sighs as I push up, standing above her once more. My lips brushing her brow because I can’t help myself before I give her space.
“For what it is worth, your painting was beautiful.”
“Well, beauty and pain can be synonymous.” She teases.
“That it can be,” I grin and turn into the living room.