‘So what happened to you last night?’ I ask snippily, taking a sip. It’s too hot and burns my tongue. I place it back on the table and wait, trying to radiate understanding but not succeeding.
Dain plays with a crust of toast and doesn’t look at me. ‘I did plan to visit you, but—’
‘The wine wore off,’ I finish for him.Just as I thought.
‘More like my common sense kicked in. I’m sorry, I totally overstepped the mark. You must think I’m some kind of animal.’
I stare at him. ‘Huh?’
He pushes his empty plate away impatiently. ‘I hate myself right now. I drank too much and totally lost control. I hope you can forgive me.’ He shakes his head. ‘I know you’re still getting over Klint, and I hope I haven’t disturbed the equilibrium.’
He looks at me with a beseeching expression.
What is he going on about?
He fiddles nervously with his antique cufflink, which is shaped like a tiny book, and I get it. He’s trying to live up to a quaint moral standard that has no place in the twenty-first century—a time when gentlemen were supposed to post women a letter expressing their admiration, not pull them behind a curtain and ravage them.
If it wasn’t so ludicrous, I’d scoff out loud. So does that mean we’re friends, or are we courting? I have no idea. All I know is that his fake chastity is making me a tad angry. I go and collect my toast and sit down and start buttering it.
‘Lizzy, it’s not that I didn’t want to come to your room. Believe me, I did. But I didn’t want to do something we’d both regret later,’ Dain says in a placating tone.
I nod. But internally, I’m screaming,Whaaat?
The sachet of liquid honey I’m struggling to open doesn’t budge, and I stab it with a fork. Dain watches me warily. A spurt of honey lands on my toast; the rest of it goes on my fingers. Maybe it’s because I’ve been dealing with weeks of sexual frustration and less-than-ideal living conditions. But frankly, reader, I’m pissed off.
Dain reaches over and pats my sticky hand, and I almost snarl. ‘It’s important to me that you understand where I’m coming from,’ he says.
‘Yeah, sure, equilibrium,’ I reply grumpily, moving my hand out of his reach and licking my fingers.
‘I hope my slip-up won’t make you move out. I like living with you.’
‘I’m not going to move out …’ I say.
‘Oh, that’s good.’ Dain looks relieved and wipes honey off his hand on a napkin.
‘But don’t you think you’re being old-fashioned to the extreme?’ I continue. ‘I know you’re into this full-immersion thing. But now that you’re getting a boiler, can’t you shift some of your Victorian social mores to the present as well?’
Dain shakes his head. ‘I think it’s important to have solid boundaries if we’re going to continue living together.’
I can’t believe my ears. So that’s it. A drunken fumble in an alcove—that’s my lot? The worst thing is that although he’s trying to be a perfect gentleman, I know damn well from reading his smutty books that he’s not. He’s being a hypocrite. I can’t do this, sit across from him and eat toast like I’m not feeling rejected.
Getting up from the table, I say, ‘Dain, I appreciate what you’re trying to achieve, but here’s my take on it for what it’s worth. You’re not a country squire, and I’m definitely not a virginal young lady. This is you and me, in real life. We’re two consenting adults who are obviously attracted to each other, wine or no wine. Oh, and here’s the thing in case I haven’t made it clear to you: I’m really, really,reallyover Klint!’
With each ‘really’, I move closer and closer to his face until our noses are almost touching. I draw back, and he stares at me with wide eyes and dilated pupils. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He seems floored by my speech and, to my delight, a little turned on. Without saying anything else, I flounce off from the table and head upstairs to wash my sticky fingers.
After that conversation, I can now see exactly what the future holds. It’s no longer a mystery. Dain is going to deny our attraction out of some misplaced sense of propriety, and I will be running to my room and touching myself every time he glances sideways at me. Maybe Ishouldmove out.
***
After ‘the confrontation’, things are strained between us at the house but slowly revert back to normal over the next week, basically because Dain’s pretending nothing happened and I’m not sure how to change the status quo. But at least we’re on speaking terms, and my notion of moving out is forgotten for the meantime.
Then strangely, items begin appearing. The first is a potted plant on my windowsill along with a small tin watering can. It’s innocuous enough that I don’t think much of it. Dain has a few plants around the house, so he’s probably bought it and put it there because my bedroom gets the morning sun. No biggie, I’m happy to water it if he wants me to.
A few days later, the old pink towel I borrowed from him has been replaced by a new fluffy white one with green embroidered flowers around the edge. OK, we’ve got a shower now (thank the Lord), so I guess he’s updating the towels?
The next week, I come in from a cold afternoon walk to find three objects sitting on my bed, unwrapped: a Brontë mug featuring characters from their books; a wooden wall hanging with aWuthering Heightsquote, ‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same’; and an illustrated bookmark of the sisters standing in front of the parsonage.
I pick each up in turn to examine them, feeling confused. They’re lovely things. But are these special gifts Dain’s chosen for me, or are they having a cleanout at the parsonage shop? I thank him later on, and he looks pleased but doesn’t mention a cleanout or anything. I still don’t know what to make of them but decide not to press it.
