We’re quiet for a minute, staring at the hapless buck and fish.
“Listen, I’ll deal with Mirabel. I’ll talk to her lawyer and figure this out. It’s likely nothing, but these things—trusts, inheritances—can have a way of staying goddamn frozen for decades if they’re not handled right. I only met her a handful of times, but from the stories Philip’s told me and from you, Miss Mirabel Wells sounds like a piece of work. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
He plops the folder onto the coffee table in front of us and relaxes.
We’re sitting rather close.
“Are you taking care of yourself?” I notice sunspots on his upper cheeks, his warm brown eye color.
“I guess so. It’s just—there’s this absence. It’s always there.” The lump in my throat swells and I play with the jet necklace. “His fucking loafers are still by the front door.”
Because I can’t think of Philip’s loafers, I lean into Henry. I flashback to Ginger wriggling away from him. But I like thissmell. It’s vaguely earthy, like he’s been outdoors working in a garden. He kind of stiffens, but I feel him breathing hard. We sit like that, frozen in a strange spell where thoughts and words won’t work.
Gingerly, he puts his hand, warm, calloused, on my cheek.
I lean closer, inhaling his scent, feeling his warmth.
“Lizzie...” he mutters as my mouth brushes his beard.
Bonnie stands up loudly, and we both jump away from each other.
“God, what am I doing?” I clap my hand over my mouth, horrified at myself.
He’s blushing deeply, as shocked as I am.
“I have to go,” I say, hurrying from the den, snapping on my helmet and grabbing my mini-backpack.
“Lizzie...” He’s following me. Bonnie runs after us to the front door, sensing the tension.
But I’m out the door and on my bike.
“Lizzie! Come back!”
But I pedal away fast.
I’m shaking. My heart pounds; tears roll down my cheeks. I hear him call after me again, but don’t look back.
The evening has cooled off and night settles in, stars glittering above.
I need to talk to my priest.
I’ve sinned.
Philip has only been gone for one month, and I almostkissedhis best friend.
“Lizzie? Oh gosh, what’s wrong? Is it Heathcliff?” Chloe asks, alarmed as she opens the front door. She’s wearing yoga pants and a coffee-stained T-shirt. She’s always been remarkably cool for a priest, but it’s strange to see her without her collar.
“No...” I mumble breathlessly, unsnapping my helmet. “I need Confession.”
“We’re Episcopalian, not Catholic. We’re not as into that.”
Her wife, Abby, walks heavily down the stairs, red-eyed, patting their newborn son’s back gently. She’s not wearing a shirt, and one side of her nursing bra is open, an enlarged, irritated areola on display. Abby nods wearily to me as she walks into the den, as if it’s perfectly normal for a neurotic parishioner to show up on their doorstep at this time of night.
“I just really need Confession now. I sinnedbig-time. I almost kissed Philip’s best friend.”
Chloe’s mouth twitches.
“Did youhearwhat I said?”
