Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
HOME
I wake up to the smell of coffee.
For a second it feels normal. Comfortable. Familiar.
Then I remember.
Paige is here.
Living here.
I lie in bed for another moment, listening. Cabinet door. A spoon against a ceramic mug.
Noah giggling downstairs.
Noah.
I glance at the clock. I should have been the one to get him up.
I look at my phone and see that my alarm’s been turned off.
I can’t be sure I did that myself…
I throw on yesterday’s sweatshirt and head downstairs.
The kitchen stops me cold.
Paige stands at the stove making French toast.
She’s wearing pale gray sleep shorts that are just a little too short to wear around someone else’s husband. An oversized button-up sleep shirt hangs loosely over one shoulder. When she reaches into the cabinet, the bottom buttons pull apart just enough to reveal skin above the waistband.
She doesn’t seem self-conscious.
She seems… comfortable.
“Morning,” she says brightly. “I hope you don’t mind. I started the coffee.”
“No,” I say. “Thanks.”
I force a smile.
Gavin sits at the island reading something on his phone.
Without looking up, he says, “It’s really good.”
He isn’t talking to me. He’s talking to Paige.
I look around. “Noah?”
“Oh,” Paige says. “I got him up. He’s in the living room, playing and giggling. I love his giggle.”
I walk toward the living room to find my son happily playing with his favorite blocks.
He’s been changed, fed, and dressed.
I stop.
His outfit. I’ve never seen it before.
Little blue dinosaur overalls. A matching striped shirt underneath.
Tiny sneakers too.
I kneel down. “When did you get these?”
From the kitchen doorway, Paige says, “I picked them up last week.”
Last week.
Before she moved in.
“I just thought they’d look cute on him. I couldn’t help myself.”
They do look cute on him, which hurts me a little.
But…
She’s been buying stuff for my son before she was sleeping under my roof.
I walk back into the kitchen.
Paige is reaching again. Showing off skin again.
“Where do we keep the cinnamon, Gavin?”
She freezes.
Silence.
Her face changes. “I mean…” She laughs nervously. “The cinnamon. Where do you keep it, Claire?”
“Above the microwave,” I say.
That one word—we—echoes around the kitchen long into a very awkward and mostly quiet breakfast.
It’s strange, but not hostile. It’s all just shifted.
I watch the way Paige slides a plate toward Gavin without asking what he wants.
He thanks her.
She always knows how much syrup he likes.
The rest of the morning passes in little moments.
The way Paige folds Noah’s blankets. The way she wipes fingerprints off the refrigerator. She even waters the herb planter on the desk.
She loads the dishwasher.
Everything she does is so helpful.
Everything she does makes it feel less like she’s visiting and more like she’s settling in.
I can’t remember where the lines blur between her being the nanny and just simply living here, making sure the house is perfect for Gavin’s needs.
Next, Paige washes the towels.
The house smells like lavender laundry detergent.
The towels are washed, dried, folded and put away.
I inspect them to find she’s folds them neater than I do.
I hate myself for noticing.
When the day finally ends, I take Noah upstairs and put him down by myself.
I cherish the alone time, rocking him in silence, listening to the white noise machine, staring down at him in the faint glow of the nightlight in his room.
I want to hold him forever.
I end up placing him down in his crib a little bit later and sneak out of the room. I stretch my arms in the hallway, noting just how much bigger he’s getting already.
I go into the bathroom and leave the light off.
Just as I’m about to splash some water on my face I hear a noise through the partially open window.
It’s Paige’s voice.
All I hear is “… this is too much.”
I step closer and listen.
“I feel like something is going to happen,” Paige says.
“You’re overthinking everything.”
Gavin’s voice.
They are sitting on the back deck, talking, not realizing that Gavin left the bathroom window open after taking a shower. And that their voices are carrying with ease. And that they are not whispering at all.
“I don’t know, Gavin,” Paige says.
“You’re fine,” he reassures her.
I’m able to look down and see him reaching across the patio table that we picked out together. His hand settles over hers. With such ease, like he’s done it a thousand times.
He smiles at her. Then asks, “Since when are you so shy?”
Paige laughs quietly.
And I know that tone from Gavin.
That’s his in the mood tone.
“I wasn’t shy…” Paige flirts.
“No, you definitely weren’t.”
Gavin playfully wipes his forehead.
My stomach drops.
This isn’t flirting.
They’re remembering something. Together.
Something that existed long before my knowledge of their affair.
Long before she moved into my guest room.
I step back from the window.
I don’t cry. I don’t yell.
I just stand there in the dark.
Watching my own house become someone else’s memory.