"Why didn't you wake me?" I shove at the blanket tangled around us.
"Why the hell would I?" He frowns as if I've insulted him by that question.
"Because I need to go," I say, trying to sound annoyed but it comes out too thin.
I shove uselessly at his biceps—they don’t budge—so I sigh and snap, theatrically, “The building’s on fire.”
"Then we'll burn here together." Said like he's already made peace with it.
"Jesus, what got into you?" I say, a little too breathless, and then stop.
Because I bury my nose in his neck without meaning to—he's not wearing his cologne so I inhale his skin—and suddenly I can't wrestle the feeling that overpowers me, something Ididn't know I was still searching for.
"You smell like home, somehow," I say.
It sounds mostly bewildered, but it makes him loosen his grip, eyes going tender.
"Then come home tomorrow," he says, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Same time."
I bury my nose in his chest again, still puzzled as he lifts my hand and presses slow, reverent kisses to each fingertip. "Is that a yes?"
I grin so hard it hurts."Yes. Yes. Yes..." Ten times over yes... And I wish I had a hundred fingers.
?
When I walk into my apartment, I carry that golden-light feeling, soft from his hands, and holding some kind of certainty in the pit of my stomach.
I plan to tell Richard everything—not the scandalous details, god, no.
Just the truth between us: that I'm sorry we didn't make it, that maybe we were never enough, that I broke what we were supposed to protect, and I'm not the good girl I've tried to be, maybe never really was, but never like this, never this much.
There'll be hate and disappointment, and I'll have to live with the fact I hurt him, but just as Carl said, I owe him the truth and the freedom to think of me whatever he wants. For once, after a long time, I should do the right thing.
But Richard isn't home again.
So I perch at the edge of the couch like a trespasser, no TVon, nothing.
When I can't take it anymore, I get up and put the kettle on because I need to hear something other than my own thoughts, and shuffle to the bathroom.
And then, right around when I'm getting out, the door bangs shut—so hard, my insides leap.
Across the floor, I see Richard charging into the kitchen with his boots pounding the tile.
I cross to him just as he grabs the counter as if he doesn't hold on, he might hit something.
I stare at him because he looks nothing like the man I know and my palms go sweaty even though I'm cold all over.
"Richard?"
His head snaps up and his eyes find me. "We're done."
Just those words—and the sound of water starting to boil, screaming.
24
In a single second, a hundred thoughts implode, and with each one, I'm assessing the damage.
Is this about the children conversation? Did André sell us out? Did Richard see something? The "nonexistent" footage?
