CHAPTER 8 #2
It was a devastating answer.
It was devastating because it made sense. He hadn't fallen out of love with me. He hadn't found someone better. He had dismantled me in his mind, brick by brick, just to justify his own sabotage.
He had turned me into a roommate so he could feel like a victim instead of a villain.
"You diminished me," I said. "To make yourself feel better."
"Yes," he said. "I did."
He didn't look away. He didn't try to soften it. He sat in the wreckage of his own confession and let me look at it.
"I am so sorry," he said. "I know sorry isn't enough. I know I can't un-say those things. But they were lies, Nora. They were lies I told to protect my own ego."
I looked at my tea. It was stone cold. A film had formed on the surface.
I thought about the house. The empty side of the bed. The silence.
I thought about the blue dot on the screen.
I thought about the woman I had become in the last three weeks—the woman who cried in supply closets and starved herself and stalked her husband. I didn't like her. I missed Nora. I missed the woman who painted kitchens and believed in safety.
Could I get her back?
If I took him back, was I reclaiming my life, or was I just accepting a broken version of it?
I looked at Declan. He was waiting. He wasn't pushing. He was just sitting there, vibrating with hope and terror, waiting for me to swing the gavel.
I felt a wave of exhaustion so profound it felt like sedation.
I didn't want to be alone anymore. I didn't want to be angry anymore. I wanted to go home.
I stood up.
Declan scrambled to stand, his chair scraping again. "Nora?"
I picked up my purse. I wrapped my coat tighter around me.
"You can come home on Friday," I said.
He stared at me. His mouth opened, then closed. "Friday?"
"Friday," I repeated. "After your shift. Not before."
"Okay," he breathed. "Okay. Friday."
"And we start therapy on Monday," I said. "You make the appointment. And we go together."
"Yes," he said. "Yes. Absolutely. I'll call her today."
"And the phone," I said, pointing to it on the table. "Location on. Always. Password shared. Always."
"Done," he said. "It's yours."
He looked like he wanted to touch me. His hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to hug me, to seal the deal, to feel the forgiveness physically.
I stepped back.
"Friday," I said again.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Nora, thank you. I won't let you down. I swear."
"You already did," I said. "Now you have to fix it."
I turned and walked out.
I walked past the couple arguing about paint. Past the student. Past the laughing women.
I walked out into the grey, wet cold of the harbour.
I crossed the street to the railing. The water was choppy, dark waves slapping against the stone. The wind bit at my face, stinging my eyes.
I gripped the cold iron railing.
And I cried.
It wasn't the hysterical sobbing of the closet. It wasn't the grieving tears of the first week.
It was a release. It was the sound of a structure that had been holding up too much weight finally buckling.
I cried because I was taking him back. I cried because I wanted to.
I cried because I knew, deep down in the marrow of my bones, that I was making a mistake, and I was going to make it anyway.
I cried because the loneliness was worse than the betrayal.
And that is a terrible thing to admit about yourself.
* * *
Friday evening came with a storm. Rain lashed against the windows of the rowhouse, turning the street into a river.
I had spent the day cleaning. I had scrubbed the house until it smelled of lemon and bleach. I had changed the sheets—put the flannel ones on, the ones he liked. I had moved his clothes back into the drawers. I had put his razor back in the shower caddy.
I was erasing the absence.
At 6:00 p.m., the truck pulled up.
I stood in the living room, by the window, watching.
He got out. He had his bag. He ran through the rain, his head ducked, and bounded up the steps.
The key turned in the lock.
It was a sound I had heard a thousand times. But tonight, it sounded like a question.
The door opened.
He walked in. He was wet. His hair was plastered to his forehead. He had shaved the beard—his face was smooth, familiar, the Declan I knew.
He dropped his bag. He kicked the door shut.
He looked at me standing in the living room.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," I said.
The house felt different. The air pressure had changed. For weeks, it had been a vacuum. Now, it was pressurized. It was full of him.
He took off my wet jacket. He took off his boots.
He walked toward me. He stopped three feet away. Respecting the boundary.
"I'm home," he said softly.
"You're home," I echoed.
He reached out a hand. Just one. Offering it.
I looked at it. I looked at the hand that had held mine. The hand that had held her.
I took it.
His fingers closed around mine instantly, tight, desperate. He pulled me in. Not fast, but inexorably.
He wrapped his arms around me. He buried his face in my neck. He was shaking.
"Thank you," he whispered into my skin. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
I held him. I smelled the rain and the soap. I felt the solid, heavy heat of him against me.
I closed my eyes.
It felt good. It felt safe.
But there was a small, cold voice in the back of my head, a voice that sounded a lot like Maggie, or maybe like Dr. Whitaker, or maybe just like the truth.
This is either the bravest thing I've ever done, I thought, pressing my face into his shoulder.
Or it is the most foolish.
I held him tighter, terrified of the answer.