Page 50 of Devil

It’s the least I owe him, my visible excitement over a gift of this size, but I’ve never been good at pushing my emotions to the surface so other people can see them. Some of my anxiety must show on my face because he laughs as I stand up and walk to the door.

“Relax, Birdie,” he says, the laughter making his voice even warmer and richer than usual. “I don’t need you to act like a character in a Christmas commercial. I just want to show you everything you need to know about your new ride.”

“I don’t want you to think that I’m not excited or grateful if I don’t seem like it, because I think I’m just quiet by nature and I tend to feel things privately, and I…” I trail off to see that he’s watching me patiently, still on the verge of laughter. Though his eyes have changed a little, the pupils spreading, like he’s hungry. And I’m food.

I flush.

“I promise not to think you’re ungrateful or greedy,” he says fondly. “Now go outside so I can explain everything to you.”

It’s not a car at all when I get outside, and Bell laughs at my astonishment.

“I thought you felt things privately,” he teases as I approach it slowly and press my hand to the sun-warmed bed of the truck.

“I wasn’t expecting… I don’t know. I think I was expecting something more decorative.”

“I’m not a Victorian duke with a mistress. Give me some credit.” His chiding is belied by the twinkling in his eyes. “I wanted something that made sense for you and also something sensible. I knew if I bought you something tiny, red, and Italian that I’d scare my pretty bird and she’d go flapping away.”

Itissensible. Painfully so because it makes it so plainly perfect for me. It’s a hybrid pickup truck, the same model he has but painted in a quiet, dark gray, like it’s politely asking not to be noticed. It’s not the most expensive truck this manufacturer makes by a long shot, and while Bell has sprung for a few extras, they’re all about comfort and safety, no flash. He makes sure I see the sliding tray mounted in its bed, so I won’t have to go crawling after anything, and the tow hitch.

“It’s perfect for hauling lumber. And furniture.”

The twinkling is very pronounced now. “I know, Birdie.”

My throat hurts. Weirdly, I think if he had gotten me something tiny, red, and Italian, I’d be unmoved right now. If I hadn’t flapped away, if I’d convinced myself to use it just for the year, I’d have done it knowing that it wasn’t really a gift for me to use; it was a stroke to his own ego. It would have been a prop, not an aid. But this…reliable and unshowy, something I’d never be able to purchase but exactly what I’d buy for myself…

“Thank you,” I say. My voice is thick, and his smile grows tender.

“You’re welcome, beautiful,” he replies, and I flush. His eyes get that hungry look again.

“Will you—” I stop, resenting myself for being so bad at these very normal things, and try again. “Will you be spending more time at your house? Soon?”

He doesn’t hesitate—he’s too smooth for that—but there’s something careful in the way he says, “The project I’m working on is very demanding, but I’m hoping I’ll be caught up by early next week. Why, Birdie? Do you miss me?”

I’m not smooth, so my answer is stumbling. “I…well, when we were together last time, I thought… I guess I thought that the deal—” I want to sink into the earth. How am I supposed to say this? And why won’t he just come back? Take what he’s paid for in trucks and a sister’s rent?

“It’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

My stomach twists because he’s saying it like he thinks I’m glad he’s gone, that I don’t miss him, andif only that were true.

“Not much longer,” he’s saying as I fail to find a way to convey that I do want him here. “I promise.”

I drivemyself to Mass on Saturday afternoon, at the big, gold-roofed cathedral on the hill. I sit in the back.

I go again Sunday morning.

When I get back, I find the Lucifer statue in the studio, set into a corner and reaching slyly toward me. I stand in front of him a long time, looking up at the curls I’d carved from memory, the gratification of a yearslong artistic itch. The itch didn’t stay scratched for long though. I want to carve them again.

In the kitchen, I find a note.

As much as I love my face being the center of attention, I wanted to move him indoors before it rains.

I’m not proud of how often I drift into the studio after that, just to look at his face.

The following Wednesday,I have an appointment with a primary care doctor to get my stitches removed and also for a standard checkup. Right after, I have an appointment in the same building with a gynecologist.

“It says here when you made the appointment that you were interested in birth control?” she asks.

I didn’t make this appointment, and Bell is the one getting the bill after, so I’m not sure what this means for my ability to say no when it comes to contraception.