How does she know? “I just broke up with someone, actually.”
“Yes. You just graduated from college, and now the boyfriend gets the chop.” She runs her finger across her throat. I picture blood dripping onto the table like sauce. “Who cheated?”
“No one.”
“You were bored, I suppose. He wanted to settle down. You didn’t.”
That's not what happened, and I’m annoyed by how she thinks she can sum up the last six months of my life in a few words.
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m guessing he’s a breeder. He wants to put a baby in you. Lights out, missionary. Typical nice college boy.” She’s still looking at me. I’m flattered by the attention, but her tone is not entirely friendly. It’s as if she’s mocking how transparent and obvious my life is. HowbasicI am. “You’re right to run. You’ll wake up in your forties with three kids and a mortgage and want to put a gun to your head.”
She waits for my response. I feel like a boxer who’s been knocked to the canvas, and the crowd is chantingGet up, get up.
“I’m not sure about that.”
“Well, get sure, girlie. Bradley’s not like that, you know. He’s a wanderer. He craves new experiences. My only concern is that he’ll go tomcatting around. Hence the gun.” I wait for her to smile, but she remains serious. “If any woman touched Bradley, I’d shoot her. Shoot him, too. Then myself. Wonder how many books they’d write about it.The Murders of Pine Ridge. Maybe I should survive so I can write it myself.”
“What on Earth are you talking about?” Bradley appears at the door to the kitchen, a jute shopping bag in his right hand. “Brie, there are some supplies here. Grace packed them for you.”
“Thanks.” I push my chair away from the table, and Grace winces at the squeal on the hardwood floors.
“Lift! Otherwise, we’ll have marks everywhere.”
I mumble an apology, feeling immediately like a child again. Even though this woman is, what? Five years older than me? Ten?
I pick up my glass to take to the kitchen, but Bradley touches my arm. “Leave it.”
“Thanks for dinner,” I say to Grace. She stares at me for a moment, then gives a slight nod. It takes me a second to realize that she isn’t going to say goodbye.
When we reach the front door, Bradley puts down the bag and pulls me into another hug. Again, I feel the definition of muscle in his back. After a month here without another man, I’m going to enjoy these hugs more than I should.
“I’m so glad you’re here. I’m sorry about what happened before. Grace can be temperamental when she’s in her creative process. Half of her brain is preoccupied with thoughts of murder. It doesn’t leave a lot of room for pleasantries.”
“It’s fine,” I say, looking out at the woods. The sun is setting, and I’m not looking forward to being in that dark cottage on my own.
“Thank you.” He looks genuinely relieved. “I wouldn’t blame you for running away. But we need you here. This place is beautiful, but it takes a lot of work.”
“I can’t wait to get started,” I say. An awkward silence follows, and it becomes clear that Bradley isn’t planning on walking me back. “Well, see you.”
I carry the bag down the stairs, and when I turn, he’s still watching me. As I reach the fork in the path, the fog in my mind begins to lift, and I feel pissed. Why couldn’t he walk me back to the cottage? And why did she have to be such an asshole?
As I half-jog down the dark path, I feel like I’m nine again, sprinting up the basement stairs in terror. I’m soon at the cottage. I can see a smudge of pink in the sky—the last of the sunset. While I still have some light, I empty the bag onto the card table. There are some fruit and vegetables, a small plastic torch, a bag of nuts, cleaning products, and toilet paper.
At the bottom of the bag, I find a scrap of paper. It’s a poem torn from a book.
I read it through twice, and the closer I read, the more confused I become. It’s a poem by Robert Browning about a woman who makes poison.
“He is with her, and they know that I know where they are, what they do.”
At first, I think it’s from Bradley. He did give me that book of poems I’m never going to read, after all. But when I reread it, I realize that it’s from Grace. And it’s not intended to make me feel truth or beauty or whatever Bradley intended.
“Not that I bid you spare her the pain! Let death be felt and the proof remain.”
It’s a warning.
Stay away from Bradley. Or else.
