Bren rises, too, his hand at the small of Elodie’s back to guide her around the chairs. “We’ll take some time to think. Be in touch.”
Ms. Heather seems small among her rainbow alphabet posters and artwork covered in kiddie scribbles. “I’m sorry this conversation went poorly. Maybe we should go ahead and have a meeting with the principal to—”
“Like I said”—Bren gives a dismissive two-fingered wave as he guides Elodie toward the door—“we’ll be in touch.”
They’re outside the classroom and headed down the empty, echoing hall before Elodie can’t hold back the steam sliding between her clenched teeth. “How dare she.”
Bren rubs a thumb against his temple. “This is a mess. Let’s take him out for a treat or something. I’ll just tell my office I had to head out for a family issue. Jesus Christ. Can’t believe she thinks we’re hurting him.”
“I would never hurt him,” she says, fierce and feverish.
Dread presses down heavy onher chest as they climb the porch steps and Bren fits the key into the front door lock. Maybe they’ll walk in and nothing will be wrong. No blood in the walls, no lesions weeping milky pus, no wallpaper flapping like slit skin.
Everything will be back to normal because everythingisnormal. She is the one falling apart, frissons in her carefully curated facade crumbling in ruinous ways. She needs tostop.
Jude trots behind her holding a brown paper bag of gigantic cookies from the bakery. He glows with anticipation, oblivious to any tension between Elodie and Bren, though she can’t help noticing he still won’t hold her hand. Won’t look at her.
She can fix this. She just needs—
The front door swings open and Bren sweeps inside only to stop abruptly. “Okay. Shit.”
“Bad word.” Jude ducks around Bren’s long legs and takes off toward the kitchen. “I need milk for my cookies!”
“Hold the carton with two hands,” Elodie calls after him on autopilot, but she’s watching Bren stride into the living room and spin in a slow circle, taking in the damage.
With some distance, some time to breathe, she can survey the situation rationally. It looks like a hurricane has torn through the house, ripping the wallpaper in room after room, so it hangs like dejected, lolling tongues. She feels unsteady, surprised she’d mutilated so much of the house. How had she had theenergy? It was like she’d been caught in a destructive fugue, powered only by panic.
Bren musses fingers through his hair as he stares with dismay at the wreckage. “Elodie…”
“Butlook.” Elodie hurries into the living room and yanks aside a drooping piece of wallpaper. “See? Look at it.” She doesn’t admit she’s relieved to find the stains this time, proof she wasn’t bitten with momentary insanity.
Thick, rotted red still lies behind the paper, the coppery smell strong enough to taint the tip of her tongue.
“What is it?” she says. “Because it looks like… blood.”
“It’s not blood.” Bren presses his fist to his mouth, and she can see his stress in every taut muscle in his back.
“Is it mold?” She hates how anxious she sounds. “If we’re living in a house of mold—”
“What? No, it isn’t.” He moves away from her, striding from room to room. “How much did you even— You know I finished these walls, right? You know this wallpaper was new?”
The accusation feels blatant, his annoyance a sting that reddens her cheeks with furious heat.
She folds her arms as she follows him. “And? Don’t you want to know we have some sort of rot issue—”
“It’s not rot.”
“—because I sure as hell want to know. It’s everywhere.”
“Look, old houses are just like this. They used to put horsehair and all sorts of crap in the mortar. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” Elodie storms forward and points at a leaking smear of red. “This is awful. Itsmells, Bren.”
He yanks at his collar, popping buttons open as his frown deepens. The tight line of his jaw, the staccato beat of his movements, the focus on the destroyed wallpaper and not what it covered—all of it gnaws at Elodie in a way that makes her insides slide painfully sideways. This is a Bren she’s not used to. His playfulness, his interminable cheerful jokes and goofy smile, his boundless energy have all been boxed up.
Because you barely know him. You barely knew him for two months before you got married and pregnant with his child, so how could you possibly know what he’s really like—
“It’s this rusty color because of the old bricks,” Bren says. “It’s not blood. I’ll throw a chemical wash over it, okay? Just… next time call me before you tear apart thousands of dollars’ worth of wallpaper.”
