I can’t ask her what she sees in me, or why she had sex with me, because then she might tell me the truth.
She pities me.
Rachel kissed me only after I told her about the breakdown. This is so much worse than the disappointment or derision I expected.
She had sex with me because she pities me.
10
Rachel
It takesa few minutes of banging for Boen to open his door. When he does, the top button of his jeans is undone, and his eyes are cold and hard.
I don’t know what worries me more.
“I think Mrs. Gretchen’s in trouble,” I gasp. “I heard a thump as I was leaving. The body-falling-kind of thump. We’ve got to check on her.”
“And you’re only deciding this now?” Without giving me a chance to explain, he ducks back inside.
When he returns, his jeans are properly buttoned but his eyes are still cold. “What’s going on?” I ask.
He starts across the grass, stepping over the hedge that borders his property. “Why do you think anything would be going on?” he tosses over his shoulder, not waiting for me to give him a reason why I left.
I have a reason, but I don’t think he’ll think it’s a good one. I had to let Rusty out. I had to use the washroom. And… I ran because the sight of Boen sleeping beside me scared the poop out of me.
I admit it. I’m not ashamed.
Maybe a little.
A lot.
“Did you call her to check if she’s all right?” Boen hops up Mrs. Gretchen’s steps. From the outside, the house appears innocently still. No lights from the windows, no sound from behind the door. It could be that Mrs. Gretchen is still sleeping, but it’s going on ten o’clock on a Sunday morning, and the woman always has things to do.
“I—no. I think we should just go in and check.”
Boen raps loudly on Mrs. Gretchen’s door. There’s no answer. “Do you have a key?” he demands. “In case she can’t get to the door?”
“I can get in,” I say. “There’s a window at the back that would be easy to open.”
“How would you know this?” I shrug, not wanting to get into the logistics of my break-and-enter phase, which really isn’t a phase, but a somewhat helpful skill I have. “You can’t break into a person’s house,” he decides, and knocks harder.
“What if she’s hurt?”
“What if she’s sleeping and you give her a heart attack crawling through her kitchen window?” He bangs with his fist. “Mrs. Gretchen?”
“I think I should get in there.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Rachel.”
“What if she’s lying there hurt, Boen? Or—”
“Hey,” a voice calls from behind us. “What’s going on?”
We turn in unison and I clutch my chest as I see Mrs. Gretchen’s grandson Dawson, walking up the path. “Oh, Dawson,” I say, relieved and yet a little disappointed that I don’t get to slip in through the window. “I heard a thump inside but Boen here doesn’t think I should break through the window. I knocked, but Mrs. Gretchen isn’t answering.”
“What kind of thump?” Dawson demands, his face creased with worry.
“A thump like…a body thump.”
