Oh God, our apartment. I’m going to have to move.
I shove that thought from my head, looking around Clint’s home unabashedly now.
The furnishings matching the Craftsman era of the home. Wood bookshelves, side tables. A cozy couch. The place smells faintly of roses and something citrusy, like lemon soap.
I swallow hard, waiting for him to come in and hold his book in my face.
You need to leave,it’ll say. OrGet out of my house!
But he would never, would he? This man who looked away shyly when I told him my name. I’m pretty sure he knew what it was before I told him. Maybe he’s been watching me for years.
For some reason, that thought doesn’t make me uncomfortable. It only makes me want him to touch me more.
But I’m still alone in here. He doesn’t follow me, and I really do need to hang this dress up. So I look around for a closet. There’s probably one by the front door, but I find my feetcarrying me to the stairs against the far wall. I clutch my dress under my arm, and with one hand, I grip the wood banister. With the other, I gently hold my rose.
There are framed photographs all the way up the wall. I stop to look, completely shameless now.
There, a little blond boy, who must be Clint. He laughs adorably with a woman who looks at him like she knows the angel he is. She must be his mother.
In another, a man who bears an uncanny resemblance to Clint, holding a rake. His father, I’m certain.
Another photo with Clint as the boy I now remember so clearly. Sitting at the kitchen table with his mother. She’s telling him something in sign language.
Whatever she’s saying, he loves it. Boy-Clint beams.
I squint, trying to see if I can replicate the shape of her hands. But then I notice the gleam on her finger.
Her wedding ring. For the first time since I ran from the hotel, I remember my grandmother’s ring—the reason I found Jeff and Clara in that closet.
It’s like my grandma knew I was making a mistake.
Hopefully it’s still there.
I think about the inheritance I’m supposed to get when I marry—it was Grandma’s stipulation to Dad. Wear the ring, get the money. If I never wanted to marry, I’d get the money at forty.
I never cared about the money until Jeff. He insisted we could use it as a down payment on the mega-church he wanted to open inland.
I laugh at how painful that will be for him to lose. He’s not getting a dime. Neither am I—not for a while, at least. But I don’t care. I never did. I liked my quiet life with books, my modest apartment before the one I shared with Jeff.
The only thing better would be…I grip the banister, sighing. A place like this.
I hear water running from somewhere downstairs. It should prod me to keep going. But I keep looking. There are more photos I want to see. A black and white one of a couple in wedding attire. Clint as a teenager with his parents, shy but clearly proud as he holds a piece of paper outside this cottage—graduation, I think.
A moment later, Clint appears at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the banister, another hanging low. Even from here, I can see his hands are clean, scrubbed pink, where they were lined with earth earlier. He must have a brush for the sole purpose of cleaning his hands. I like his attention to detail.
“Your parents?” I ask, indicating one of the photos.
He comes up slowly, stopping a few steps behind me so we’re at eye level. He nods.
“Are they…”
He shakes his head. Gone.
He really is alone.
“My father died, too,” I say. “I miss him every day.”
Clint’s face is awash with understanding.
