“You can’t hold any of this against me,” Bren goes on, factual and calm, his stance casual as if he has nothing to fear down here in the dark. “Not compared to what you’ve done.”
Slowly, she looks up at him through her gnarled curls, her eyes fathomless black pits.
“At least I,” he says, “didn’t murder my parents.”
He is so close to her; she so close to him.
It is so easy to reach over and flip the switch on the circular saw.
4 MONTHS AGO
It is unthinkable to facethe fact they must separate again with no way to ease the parting except to tear their hearts in half and stuff a throbbing piece in the other’s pocket. He will fly back to America. She will return to her damp garage.
After talking nonstop the last two days, a morose but comfortable quiet has settled between them as he drives his rental car toward her street. They toss dates back and forth—he could come out in six weeks, maybe four. He has his job, his house, his real life, after all.
His eyes are full of mournful agony every time he looks at her. “I miss you already. I’m sick with it.”
She knows they can’t sustain a life zipping between countries, that he will grow bored of the expense, of her. He’s mentioned using the last of his inheritance from his parents on flights, though those funds are fast running out. But still, this tentative nub of hope has begunflowering between her lungs, threading violets and roses through rib and bone until every time she sucks in a breath, she is filled with this tremulous excitement.
This is what hope tastes like.
And if he never comes back, then she still has part of him.
There’s no way to truly know, but when she flattens her hands against the toned muscles of her stomach, she imagines she can feel it in there, a kernel of life tucked deep in her womb.
Something woven from Bren’s blood and bone will be full of light. She believes this with such fervent conviction it leaves her breathless. She can’t survive a future that holds only her and Jude, both of them draining the life out of each other with a starvation the other will never satisfy. Now she has this.
“Next time, I’ll take you both somewhere,” he says. “I’ll plan somethingepic.”
Eventually, she will tell him the truth about the way Jude is, but not yet. They are still too new, her grip on him too uncertain.
When he pulls up at the curb in front of her parents’ house, he kisses her until neither of them can breathe.
“Let me carry your bags to the door, at least.” He rips off his seat belt.
“Isn’t your flight in two hours?”
“Eh, I still have plenty of time to check in.” He flashes her a mischievous grin and grabs her pathetic tiny suitcase from the back seat.
A dull lump settles in her stomach as she watches him take in the weed-choked lawn and decrepit house, shutters falling off the windows and the outdoor staircase discolored with age. At least he thinks she lives upstairs.
Elodie scoops her hair into a haphazard bun and smooths her black dress, one he bought for her. As long as he leaves before she goes inside,it will be fine. She walks briskly across the dead grass, and Bren ambles behind her with her suitcase.
She has this sudden, spiteful wish for her parents to glance outside and see the kind of rich, blue-eyed boy she has caught. To see she is worthy of being wanted, despite what they believe.
“Jude is upstairs with my parents,” she says. “Just leave my bag here.” The need to see her son again has begun to chew through her, this anxious craving to cuddle him and be sure he is unharmed, that he is safe.
She’s halfway up the stairs to the front door when Bren says, “Hey, Elodie? I think Jude’s in here.”
She whips around, her hand on the banister, annoyance a hot flash as she sees him peering through the singular dirty window into her garage. He isn’t supposed to see in there.
And then she registers what he said.
“No,” she says. “No, he’s… He’s upstairs with my parents.”
But she’s already tripping over herself as she flies back down the stairs and runs over to the old door at the side of the garage. She twists the rust-speckled knob, growing frantic when it doesn’t turn and she has to dig the spare key out from under the mat. She can hear it now: feet pattering, ragged breathing, and then a thump as a small body hits the door.
“Mama!”The voice is hoarse, high, terrified.
