“I thought I should be aware of all of Ordinary’s rules. And since it is surrounded by national forest land.” He just shrugged to finish that thought.
“Okay.” I nodded. “Twice a week.”
“Yes.” He let go of my hand and stepped back. “Good night, Reed Daughter. I will not be at work tomorrow. I shall be taking a sick day.” He coughed into his fist, but it sounded totally fake.
“Get well. Don’t spread your germs around.”
I stepped out onto his porch. It was cold, the wind gusts whipping hair in my face. I pulled the little flower pot toward my chest, unzipped my coat, and tucked it in behind the small safety of my lapels.
I didn’t know why I did it. A blossomless flower or weed or whatever it was could handle a little wind.
Still, I held it there close, close to my heart and just kept repeating to myself,water, sunlight, patience, time.
Then I got in the Jeep and drove the dark road home.
Chapter Ten
I heardthe key in the front lock, the creak in the hinges I loved and had told him not to oil away to silence. The door closed, locks clicked, deadbolt, then the chain. The rustle of his coat coming off. A soft groaning exhale, as if the full-range motion of shoulder and torso hurt to complete. As if he were sore. Exhausted.
The keys jingled, down into his front pocket, because he never remembered that I’d put a little dish right there on the shelf for his keys, pocket knife, pencil, measuring tape, wallet.
He’d wonder where the keys were in the morning. I’d tell him to check his pockets, just like I always did.
I’d remind him there was a shelf for that, a bowl.
Boots were next, the heavy steel-toed ones he’d been so excited to find on sale, and which I’d teased him about while he’d worked rain-proofing into them with that short, soft-bristled brush.
Then he paused. He was listening for me, I thought. For my breathing. For me to call out his name.
I held my breath and didn’t move, lying on my side and staring at the little sky-blue flower pot set off center in our bedroom window.
There’d be morning light. With any luck, there’d be more than enough for it.
With stockinged steps, always heavy in the heel—he had never tip-toed in all the time we’d been together—he walked the length of the hall. But instead of coming into the bedroom, his bedroom, our bedroom, he paused there at the door.
It was half open. I never wanted him to come home and think I was shutting him out. I knew he could see my back from that angle, I knew he could see Spud, who lifted his head and thumped his tail, lying beside me, his back pressed against mine, holding the space where Ryder should be.
I knew he could see the dragon pig curled up on the bench at the foot of the bed, the shark toy Spud had given it tonight propped under its head. Knew the dragon opened its eyes, red light pouring from them, casting the room in fire, flame for a moment, all dragon in its waking. Then, finding itself safe in our house, the twin spotlights of its gaze snuffed, eyes closed. One. Two.
Ryder waited there. I wanted to turn. Wanted to tell him I was awake, that I hadn’t really been asleep. I’d been thinking of him, waiting for him.
But then his hand, resting on the doorframe, lifted, the softsnickof flesh releasing painted wood distinct in the air, like an exhale. A choice.
He did not step in. His footsteps followed the hallway, down to the spare bath where the door opened and closed, the light clicked, and the water ran, hot, I knew, and full blast.
The water changed to the massage feature, the pulse hard, but not hard enough to beat the soreness out of his shoulders and his left hip he’d been rubbing when he didn’t think I was watching.
“Come to bed, Ryder,” I said to the wall, to the windowsill, to the little pot that might one day be a flower. If I didn’t kill it with too much water, too little water, too much sunlight. All it needed was enough. Just enough.
The water stopped. I waited as he dried his body, ran fingers through his hair, and pulled the towel around his waist because he hadn’t come into the room for clean boxers.
I catalogued his movements through the house. He threw his clothes in the laundry room—the measuring tape in his pocket clanking against the side of the dryer.
I smiled at his soft curse, smiled wider at his sudden stillness. As if waking me was the last thing he wanted to do. As if letting me rest was something he really wanted to give me.
Or maybe avoiding talking to me was the only thing on his mind.
My eyes flicked to the pot.Water, sunlight, patience, time.
