I unpack the extra stuff I brought from home, sliding Noah’s shirts a bit down the rod in the closet so I can fit a few more dresses, fighting the urge to read… whatever he has to say about being married.
Then I bring the rest of my toiletries to the en-suite bathroom we share. It’s so large, it might have been a bedroom in another era. There’s a clawfoot tub and a separate walk-in shower, a whole linen closet with antique doors painted off-white. The walls are covered in white subway tile, the floor in a black-and-white mosaic. An oval mirror and chrome sconces top the large pedestal sink. No vanity, but a whole pine chest under the window with four drawers.
One is full of Noah’s things.
Three are empty—he made space for me last night. And I know it’s normal (anyone would do that), but still it gives me a sense of belonging, just like Beck and Lane giving me a tour made me feel welcome even if they were trying to spook me.
I take possession of the empty drawers, all the time dying to know what’s in his diary.
Sharing such intimacy with Noah is a sweet torture. From showering this morning, I know where his forest scent comes from—his body wash. But that earthy tone is different. It’shim. Or maybe it’s his deodorant? Does he wear aftershave? I don’t think I ever noticed that.
A wife should know these things.
Like, she-I should not read her husband’s diary (very generally speaking. I’m sure there are some valid exceptions to that) but she-I should definitely at least know what products he uses. What painkillers he prefers.
A real wife might even buy them for him.
Right?
And isn’t it better to go through someone’s drawers than read their diary? If that someone is your husband.
And shouldn’t I know what’s in the drawers of the room I shower in?
Noah has three different electric razors, a pack of twelve toothbrushes, toothpaste for sensitive gums, whitening toothpaste, two humongous bottles of mouthwash, Q-Tips, a manual razor like the one on the side of the sink in a little holder thingamajig, extra blades, shaving cream, tiny Band-Aids, some foot spray, a pack of deodorant sticks, and… bear repellent? Why does he have bear repellent in the bathroom? What else is in there?
A nail clipper, three combs still wrapped in plastic, a shoe brush.
In the very back, massage oil. Covered in a vaguely greasy dust, the bottle looks a little old, and there’s hardly any oil missing.
Hmm.
Moving the stuff around, I keep looking.
No condoms.
Absolutely none.
fourteen
Willow
That afternoon, my hike up Hunger Path doesn’t bring me the peace I expect. The threat of a storm makes the air tense and insects nervous. I came to clear my mind, think things through, but it doesn’t do that. Not today. I make it to the summit, watch the minuscule human activity down below, and jog back down wondering about the meaning of… everything. Of Mom pouting. Of ancient stories. Of my curiosity about a diary. Even the absence of condoms in a certain drawer seems like something I should be able to make sense of, but cannot.
Halfway down the trail, I’m nearly toppled over by a big dog running loose. “Moose!” I call out. The Saint Bernard is Justin’s dog. He usually never leaves Lazy’s, Justin’s pub, and he’s always down for a scratch behind the ears. But today he barely slows down before galloping to the village. Even the dogs are acting weird. Must be the weather.
Back at Lilyvale, I bring some wood from the neat stack outside into a room at the front where earlier I noticed ashes in the fireplace. Feeling semi-useful, I take a shower then settle down with a mystery novel.
That evening, as heavy clouds roll in, Noah and I have dinner alone, sitting catty-corner at the kitchen counter. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Noah says with an apology in his voice.
The truth is, I don’t know what the etiquette is for fake newlyweds. Do we keep tabs on each other,I’m-on-my-waytype of thing, or do we just ignore each other when no one is present?
Somewhere along the middle of that seems about right. “Wild guess, newlyweds wait on each other for dinner,” I counter. “At least in the beginning?”
Lane is out on a date, Beck is god knows where—but he left heating instructions taped to the fridge for a chicken casserole, which I took as an invitation to have for dinner.
Truth is, I didn’t feel like eating alone.
Noah is quiet, and the silence irks me. “I can’t wait to go back to work tomorrow,” I confess, breaking the soft sounds of metal on china. “Get back to normal.” I need to talk to someone.
