Rhett’s face shuts down. The warmth in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a cool, blank mask. It hurts to see it. It hurts more than I expect it to.
“Right,” he says quietly. He nods once, a short, jerky motion. “I hear you.”
He turns and walks away. He doesn’t slam the door. He just leaves, closing it gently behind him.
I stand alone in the center of the room. My chest heaves. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon.
Why did I say that? Why did I have to be so cruel?
I’m scared. I can at least admit to that. I don’t want to lose control, and their being kind to me makes me want things I can’t have.
It makes me want to stay.
Fuck!
I lift my arm and sniff my sleeve. Do I smell bad? Is that what he meant by bitter?
I don’t smell angry. I just smell likeme.
I need order. I need control.
I look around the living room. It’s a mess. Blankets are piled on the sofa. Boots are scattered near the door. There are muddy footprints on the rug.
I march to the laundry room. I need to wash everything. I need to scrub the floor. I need to make this house smell like me again.
But as I start gathering the clothes—the shirts, the socks, the jeans—they have scrounged from who knows where—the reality hits me.
The house smells like them.
It smells like Boone’s leather and rosemary. Knox’s whiskey and ginger. Rhett’s cinnamon and espresso.
It’s in the furniture. It’s in the curtains. It’s in the very walls.
I throw a load of darks into the machine and pour in the detergent. I slam the lid shut and turn the dial. Nothing happens. The machine is dead.
Right. No power.
I let out a frustrated scream and kick the washing machine. It hurts my toe, but I don’t care. I sink to the floor, burying my face in my hands.
I’m so out of my depth here.
Three days.
The rain hasn’t stopped. It’s only gotten worse, turning the yard into a bog and the sky into a perpetual twilight. The generators are providing enough power for the lights and the well pump, but not enough to dry out the damp that seeps into everything.
The tension in the house feels almost physical. We’re like ghosts, passing through the same rooms, operating around each other with a careful, practiced avoidance.
Boone and Knox and Rhett keep to a schedule. They wake up before dawn, go out to the barn, and come back only for meals or to grab dry clothes. They speak to me only when necessary.
“Pass the salt.”
“Watch your step, the floor is wet.”
“Generator needs fuel.”
It’s polite. It’s distant. It’s driving me insane.
I try to help. I really do. I cook breakfast one morning—eggs and toast on the wood stove. They eat quickly, murmuring thanks, and then leave. I try to help Knox feed the chickens, but he takes the grain bucket from my hand before I can even reach the coop.
