Chapter 18 #3
“You look…” She pauses. Is she searching for some right word? “Good.”
“I am.”
“Any headaches?”
“Gone for the most part.” I tap my temple. “As long as there isn’t a lot of noise.”
“We’ll keep it quiet.”
We look at each other, and somehow the quiet gets louder.
So much for no headaches.
A gust slams into the house hard enough to rattle the dishes in the hutch. The lantern flickers. I turn off the burner.
We stand there a minute, sipping too-hot tea. The heat settles in my gut, calming something feral.
“You hungry?” I ask.
She hesitates. “A little.”
“I was going to barbecue burgers tonight, but the storm changes that. We can fry them on the gas stove. Plus the pantry is always stocked with staples. Canned soup, canned veggies, crackers.”
“Burgers are fine. Maybe with some soup.”
I nod and open the pantry, pull out two cans of tomato, and find a pot. I find the can opener, open the cans, pour them into the pot, and add water. Gas flame again, the only steady light besides the lantern. We move around each other without bumping.
“Tomato soup is best with grilled cheese,” Tabitha says.
“There might be some sliced cheese in the freezer. I can look.”
She shakes her head. “Burgers are fine. Are there buns?”
I nod. “In the freezer.”
She scans the kitchen. “You know what? Just the soup is fine for me. For now. I don’t need a burger.”
I nod. Because even though I could eat a burger, I just want whatever Tabitha wants in this moment.
When the soup is warm, we sit at the counter with our mugs of tea. She takes a spoon of soup, blows on it, brings it to her lips.
And I’m jealous of a damned spoon.
The soup is decent, though nothing like my mom’s homemade tomato bisque. I crush a few saltines into mine and take another bite.
“So…how’s the seminar?” I ask.
She blinks a moment. “It’s good. I have good days and bad days.
Some days the TA says how great I am, and others he looks at me like I’ve got two heads.
It’s weird. Like one day this past week, I couldn’t seem to make my hands remember what they know.
Sometimes I feel like my body doesn’t belong to me. ”
God, do I understand that sentiment. “It does,” is all I say.
I want to say you’re worth it and I’d burn the world for you and all the other unhelpful truths.
I say nothing.
Rain hits the windows harder. A branch scrapes the siding. It sounds similar to fingernails on a chalkboard, and I cringe. In the pause after, the house lets out a settling groan.
“Then why does it betray me?”
“Bodies do that.” I look at my hands. A scar I earned as a kid. Another from last year. Not to mention the one on my head. “They’re human. They break. They heal. They remind us.”
God, I sound like Aunt Melanie.
“Of what?” Tabitha asks.
“That we can’t think our way out of being alive.”
Again, Aunt Melanie seems to be channeling herself through me.
Silence again, but softer this time. But it also makes me wonder. Why isn’t Tabitha asking about the accident? About my recovery?
Does she truly not care?
But then—
Her gaze cuts to mine. Heat ripples between us, real as the blue flame from the stove. But she looks away quickly.
The wind chooses that moment to haul off and hit the house sideways. Somewhere outside a tree cracks. We both jerk. A second later, the sound lands. The heavy thud of something big giving up and going down.
Which reminds me, of course, of Ralph Normandy going down.
Tabitha is on her feet before I can ruminate further. “What was that?”
“A tree.” I stand. “We’re fine. This roof has withstood worse.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
“You should keep the lantern with you,” I say. “The master’s down the hall. I’ll get my stuff out of there.”
“And you?”
“I’ll take one of the others.”
She nods but doesn’t move. The storm rages on.
“Henry,” she says.
And her use of my name guts me. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear it from her lips, in her sweet voice.
“Yeah.”
“I’m not here to—” She cuts herself off, shakes her head. “No. We promised honesty. I don’t know what I’m doing here that isn’t running from…”
“From what?”
“From…something.”
“Me neither,” I say.
Her breath catches. For a second, we’re just two people admitting we’re not built of steel. Then the wind blows again, and the house seems to moan.
“You should sleep,” I say. “The storm will be over by morning, and things will look different.”
“They always do,” she murmurs.
She picks up the lantern. The light halos her, soft and unreal. She grabs her suitcase that’s still by the door, starts down the hall but then stops and turns back.
“Yeah?” I say.
A beat. Then, “Nothing.”
Zach thumps his tail from the rug by the hearth and lifts his head. I rake a hand through his fur and then follow Tabitha to grab my bag from the master.
Thunder booms again.
I shove my stuff into one of the other bedrooms but then head back to the great room. I lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling. Down the hall, a door clicks shut.
“Hey,” I say to Zach as he lies down next to the couch.
Just the storm.
And the two of us.
And the dark.