4. #3
But when she stepped inside the house and divested herself of her wet shoes, she couldn’t make herself walk any farther than the kitchen right off the garage door, couldn’t even make it to the chairs at the farmhouse table. She slumped against the wall instead, with a long, ragged sigh.
The last conversation they’d had was an argument. Because of course it was. Their last conversation was also two days ago, because that’s how it went with Elias—if he got angry, he just ignored you. The few times he had deviated from this pattern had made Claire prefer being ignored.
Anyway, two days ago had been their fifth anniversary.
They’d gone all out—five-star restaurant where Elias knew the chef and got a private table.
Wine that probably cost four figures. He’d picked out her dress, and they’d made love—not fucked, not that time, it was different—before they even left the house, because he said she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Good lovemaking, because whatever you called it, it was always good.
And even after five years, it still surprised her that someone who looked like Elias Ashbury, tall and handsome and with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, could have chosen her. Could love her.
He’d held her hand all through dinner, and she couldn’t remember anything they’d talked about. But she remembered that she was warm, warm the whole time, and felt so loved, and so safe, and everything was funny and everything made her smile.
Which was why she felt brave enough to ask about setting a date.
Here her memory clicked into 4K brilliance. Elias had still held her hand, but his went dead-fish limp. “What do you mean?”
Claire had shrugged, glanced away. She’d drunk quite a lot of that four-figure wine, and the fairy lights in the hanging foliage seemed like miniature suns. “It’s been three years since we got engaged. Seems like we should at least talk about it.”
His hold on her hand tightened. The diamond of her engagement ring had turned sideways, and the stone dug into the flesh beneath her middle knuckle.
“Are you not happy?” Somehow demanding and heartbroken at the same time.
“Look at everything I’ve given you, Claire, because I love you so much.
You had nothing, and I picked you.” He dropped her hand, sitting back, shaking his head.
“It’s about the money, right? You don’t actually love me, you just want—”
“Of course not!” She tried to grab his hand, but he pulled it away, splayed back in his chair like fucking Caesar at the gladiator rings or some shit, shaking his head some more. “Elias, it’s not about money. It’s just… you asked me to get married. I want to get married. Don’t you?”
And the hurt melted, at least a little bit. Elias didn’t take her hand again, but he did sigh, and soften. “Next year,” he said. Something in the undercurrent of his voice, some emotion she couldn’t identify. “Ask me next year.” He closed his eyes, sighed again. “I just love you too much, Claire.”
It’d been the same answer the other times she’d asked. He loved her too much to marry her. And she didn’t understand, but what did she know about love? Only what he’d shown her.
The house was quiet except for the bubbling of the fish tank in the living room. A massive one that covered a whole wall, emitting a blue glow that seeped in through the arched doorway, limned the stainless-steel appliances and marble countertops.
How the hell was she going to pay for this shit? Her freelancing made pennies. Everything was in Elias’s name. She’d have to move to a less expensive suburb, or into some closet in the city. God. God.
No reason to worry about it tonight. Not like she could do anything.
Claire wandered into the living room, where the tank and the octopus were.
She’d always called it an octopus, even though Elias told her that wasn’t quite right.
It was some other kind of animal, closely related.
To Claire, it looked like it was all leg.
The one time she’d seen a mouth, it was circular and full of teeth.
She didn’t like watching it move. Even now, she didn’t spare the tank more than a passing glance.
The passing glance was enough for her to see the envelope propped up against it.
Frowning, she reached out and snatched it away, still not wanting to get too close to the tank. When she did, she felt like the octopus—the not-octopus—watched her.
The front of the envelope was blank. She opened it.
Well, then.
The deed to the house. Car titles. Bank statements with her name added. Elias must have done all this before he died. Maybe he meant to make their anniversary fight up to her, show her that he knew it wasn’t about the money. Maybe this was the first step in actually planning their wedding.
It hit her like a wave, like a riptide. Claire didn’t care that the nearest surface was the tank; she slid down it with the papers clutched to her chest, weeping so hard her throat felt like it could split in half, like she could vomit out her lungs.
It wasn’t until some time later, when she’d ended up on her side and staring up into the blue, that she realized the octopus-thing was dead.