Chapter 37
Luke
Ordinarily I’d reserve judgment about a man a woman has strapped to a bed. But men like Charles rarely make it easy to turn the other cheek.
“You seem like a decent guy,” he says. “Handy. Quiet. Probably good with dogs.” He smiles.
It’s the smile of a man who’s never been hit in a way that mattered.
“But whatever you think is happening here—whatever she’s told you—all lies.
She’s performing. That’s what Marin does.
She performs. And when the audience stops clapping, she finds a new one. ”
I look at him. Strapped to a bed. Bruised.
Fed and medicated by the woman he just described as crazy.
A woman who carried him out of a trailer with a busted ankle, dragged a mattress up a flight of stairs at two in the morning, built a cover story for an entire town, and calls me about railings that don’t need fixing because she doesn’t know how to ask for help any other way.
And this man—this man who has all of that aimed at him like a spotlight—can’t find a single reason to be grateful.
“That’s one way to put it,” I say.
He stares at me. Confused. “What?”
“From where I’m standing, you’ve got a woman who would burn the world down for you. And all you’ve done with that is tell her she’s not worth marrying.” I lean against the doorframe. “That’s not honesty. That’s waste.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
“You don’t know her,” he says, finally. “You don’t know what she’s like. She suffocates. She controls. She doesn’t give you room to breathe, let alone—”
“I hear you. She made it too easy and you got bored and found someone who made you work for it. That’s not love. That’s just a man who doesn’t know what he has until someone else reaches for it.”
I let that sit.
“But if I were you, I’d be less worried about telling her she’s crazy— and more worried about what happens when she stops trying.”
I push off the doorframe.
“Think about it.”
I close the door. Stand in the hallway. My hands are shaking. Her laugh is still coming through the floor. He’s behind that door with what I want and no use for it. And the thought I buried under the floorboards is already scratching to get out.
Let him go. Let her need you. Let this house be yours again with her in it.
I press my palms against the wall. Breathe until my hands stop shaking. Then I go downstairs.
She’s off the phone. Laptop closed. Coffee in hand. Smile on.
“Railing’s done,” I say. “Tightened it up.”
“Thank God. I was afraid the whole thing was going to come off the house. I almost didn’t call you but I kept thinking about someone leaning on it and—”
“Smart call,” I say. “Better to be safe.”
I take a sip of coffee. “Thought I heard something in the upstairs bathroom pipe. Went and checked. It’s fine.”
She nods. Doesn’t question it.
I set the mug down.
“Listen,” I say. “I can see you’ve got everything handled here.”
She looks at me. Waiting.
What I want to say would blow the walls off this house. What I want to say has nothing to do with railings or faucets or the man upstairs or anything I’m allowed to want.
“But have you ever tried making him jealous?”
The smile drops. Not all at once—in stages, like a building coming down floor by floor. First the brightness. Then the composure. Then the mask itself, until what’s left is just her, looking at me, with nothing between us but the counter and the question.
She cocks her head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said.”
The kitchen is quiet. The house is quiet. Upstairs, he’s quiet.
She hasn’t said no.