Margot loves these home improvement and cooking shows that are on every single one of the next four channels. She keeps refusing to try true crime podcasts instead.
She’s more interested in fixing things than in worrying about all of the ways someone might murder her someday.
That’s probably healthiest for her. She does have a lot of that older sisterwhat if something terrible happensin her personality already.
No need to give her other ideas beyondwhat if the wood beneath the carpet is rotted and we can’t use it?
I click and click and click, until I’ve flipped through two hundred channels three different times.
Oliver’s still in the bathroom.
Maybe he’s working out all of his dinner.
Or maybe he’s scrolling his phone.
Could be either. Or both.
I’m just grateful for having a break from him.
Some breathing room.
He was different Saturday night from what I remember of him when he was engaged to Margot.
He was different again from Saturday to Sunday.
More so Monday, kind of. Sleeping the whole day in the car was worrisome, but given that he still looks like he’s in his forties, I can only imagine how much stress he’s recovering from and how much sleep he might need.
And then yesterday—yesterday, he was different all over again in his anger about the phone.
But today was something else entirely.
Today, it feels like something snapped inside of him, and now he’s—I don’t know what he is.
Not the old Oliver.
Not grumpy Oliver.
Not angry Oliver.
More likefound his peaceOliver.
Got far enough awayOliver.
Let go of everything and wants to liveOliver.
Still far more confident than he was four years ago, but without the edge he’s had the past few days.
And goddess help me, I like it.
I’m still searching mindlessly on the television, pretending he’s not hiding from me in the bathroom. I click past something that appears to be local news, and then instantly flip back as my brain catches up to what I saw.
Those kids look familiar.
Actually, they look like—“Oh, fuck.”
This is bad.
This is very, very bad.
