Chapter 22
BIRDIE
The next four days are the same but worse, because by the time I wake up, Bell is gone and his side of the bed is unrumpled.
He texts in the morning to make sure I’ve taken my antibiotic and inform me that there’s lunch in the fridge to be heated up.
It’s only the food in the fridge that lets me know he’s been home at all, the sticky notes with my name, strange ghosts of the slips that once accompanied pomegranates left on my desk.
At night, he sends dinner, different things every night. He never asks me what I’d like, but he’s eerily good at guessing. Shrimp but not salmon. Chicken but not beef. Some kind of bread or roll or biscuit with every meal.
My leg slowly starts to feel better, is able to bear weight without twinging, and my shoulder doesn’t hurt at all. I’ve become diurnal since he took me from the farm. I’m eating and sleeping so much that I feel guilty about it. I don’t know why.
I finish the dresser, and the pieces are now hanging in the studio while the industrial fans coax the topcoat into a hard, dry layer.
I dare to take my healing leg on a walk and stroll around the brick-and-concrete maze and down to the train tracks by the river. I stand in the heat and wonder why Bell is willing to house me, feed me, and give me a studio full of light and wood but not willing to have sex with me.
To fuck me, as he would put it.
On the fifth day, keys appear on the kitchen counter with a note.
The note explains that he’s bought a vehicle for me to use while I live with him because driving “that rusted death trap” back and forth to Buddy’s is out of the question.
He’s already covered the insurance; I can cancel the policy on my car for now since it won’t be needed.
I shouldn’t feel awkward about accepting this, since I can give it back when our year is over.
It’s really more like a company car, a perk, when you think about it, Birdie.
A phone too is on the counter. An expensive one with a good plan.
I’m welcome to keep my old one as long as I need to transition, Bell says, but I can shed that expense as well if I want.
I consider leaving both items on the counter, ignoring them like he’s ignoring me.
But God help me, there is a girlish flutter in my chest as I consider them.
Not the lavishness of the gifts themselves but that he hasn’t forgotten me, that it doesn’t seem like our deal is being unstruck.
He wouldn’t invest in a car or a phone if he planned to get rid of me. I think.
And, well, this is the bitter truth of my circumstances, but I can’t afford to say no. My pride apparently has a price.
My car really cannot be trusted. My phone is so old that the battery only holds a charge for about an hour.
I text him to thank him.
Thank you for the car and for the phone. I don’t know what to say.
My new phone lights up with a call, and I see that he’s already put himself in as a contact. Ry, with a selfie for his profile picture. I have to scan the unfamiliar options on the screen for a minute, but I finally manage to answer the call, and his face appears, a dimple already in his cheek.
“Do you like your presents?” he asks. There’s a glass wall behind him, and the exposed ducting and rafters of a trendy workspace beyond that. The lack of noise and closed-in sound of his voice makes me think he’s got an office of his own.
“Um, yes. I mean, I haven’t gone outside to see the car yet, but I really appreciate it. It’s very helpful, and I’m not—” I feel ridiculous. “I should say no, but I’m not.”
The dimple gets deeper. “Good girl,” he says, and that thing flutters in my chest again. You’re thirty-six, I remind myself. Stop it.
“Go outside,” he says. “I want you to see it.”
It’s the least I owe him, my visible excitement over a gift of this size, but I’ve never been good at pushing my emotions to the surface so other people can see them. Some of my anxiety must show on my face because he laughs as I stand up and walk to the door.
“Relax, Birdie,” he says, the laughter making his voice even warmer and richer than usual. “I don’t need you to act like a character in a Christmas commercial. I just want to show you everything you need to know about your new ride.”
“I don’t want you to think that I’m not excited or grateful if I don’t seem like it, because I think I’m just quiet by nature and I tend to feel things privately, and I…
” I trail off to see that he’s watching me patiently, still on the verge of laughter.
Though his eyes have changed a little, the pupils spreading, like he’s hungry. And I’m food.
I flush.
“I promise not to think you’re ungrateful or greedy,” he says fondly. “Now go outside so I can explain everything to you.”
It’s not a car at all when I get outside, and Bell laughs at my astonishment.
“I thought you felt things privately,” he teases as I approach it slowly and press my hand to the sun-warmed bed of the truck.
“I wasn’t expecting… I don’t know. I think I was expecting something more decorative.”
“I’m not a Victorian duke with a mistress.
Give me some credit.” His chiding is belied by the twinkling in his eyes.
“I wanted something that made sense for you and also something sensible. I knew if I bought you something tiny, red, and Italian that I’d scare my pretty bird and she’d go flapping away. ”
It is sensible. Painfully so because it makes it so plainly perfect for me.
It’s a hybrid pickup truck, the same model he has but painted in a quiet, dark gray, like it’s politely asking not to be noticed.
It’s not the most expensive truck this manufacturer makes by a long shot, and while Bell has sprung for a few extras, they’re all about comfort and safety, no flash.
He makes sure I see the sliding tray mounted in its bed, so I won’t have to go crawling after anything, and the tow hitch.
“It’s perfect for hauling lumber. And furniture.”
The twinkling is very pronounced now. “I know, Birdie.”
My throat hurts. Weirdly, I think if he had gotten me something tiny, red, and Italian, I’d be unmoved right now.
If I hadn’t flapped away, if I’d convinced myself to use it just for the year, I’d have done it knowing that it wasn’t really a gift for me to use; it was a stroke to his own ego.
It would have been a prop, not an aid. But this…
reliable and unshowy, something I’d never be able to purchase but exactly what I’d buy for myself…
“Thank you,” I say. My voice is thick, and his smile grows tender.
“You’re welcome, beautiful,” he replies, and I flush. His eyes get that hungry look again.
“Will you—” I stop, resenting myself for being so bad at these very normal things, and try again. “Will you be spending more time at your house? Soon?”
He doesn’t hesitate—he’s too smooth for that—but there’s something careful in the way he says, “The project I’m working on is very demanding, but I’m hoping I’ll be caught up by early next week. Why, Birdie? Do you miss me?”
I’m not smooth, so my answer is stumbling. “I…well, when we were together last time, I thought… I guess I thought that the deal—” I want to sink into the earth. How am I supposed to say this? And why won’t he just come back? Take what he’s paid for in trucks and a sister’s rent?
“It’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked that.”
My stomach twists because he’s saying it like he thinks I’m glad he’s gone, that I don’t miss him, and if only that were true.
“Not much longer,” he’s saying as I fail to find a way to convey that I do want him here. “I promise.”
I drive myself to Mass on Saturday afternoon, at the big, gold-roofed cathedral on the hill. I sit in the back.
I go again Sunday morning.
When I get back, I find the Lucifer statue in the studio, set into a corner and reaching slyly toward me.
I stand in front of him a long time, looking up at the curls I’d carved from memory, the gratification of a yearslong artistic itch.
The itch didn’t stay scratched for long though. I want to carve them again.
In the kitchen, I find a note.
As much as I love my face being the center of attention, I wanted to move him indoors before it rains.
I’m not proud of how often I drift into the studio after that, just to look at his face.
The following Wednesday, I have an appointment with a primary care doctor to get my stitches removed and also for a standard checkup. Right after, I have an appointment in the same building with a gynecologist.
“It says here when you made the appointment that you were interested in birth control?” she asks.
I didn’t make this appointment, and Bell is the one getting the bill after, so I’m not sure what this means for my ability to say no when it comes to contraception.
But also free use—there will be times when condoms will be inconvenient or inaccessible. I don’t want to risk our deal, and I can’t risk a baby.
“I’m new to birth control,” I finally say. “Do you mind telling me about what’s available?”