One thing about beautiful old houses is that they don’t always have modern amenities. There’s only enough hot water in the tank for a lukewarm shower, but I turn the knob all the way and stand under the spray without moving, letting it use up all the hot water in a matter of seconds. It burns my shoulders, my breasts. My skin turns pink, which is a relief. That’s how I feel on the inside. Tender and hurt. The water turns cold, but I stay like that, opening my mouth and drinking some of the well water, letting it numb me from the outside.
When I get out of the shower, I still look like I’ve been run over by a train, my eyes red and a little shell-shocked. But I don’t look like I’ve just been in a gangbang, which is an improvement. I throw on a Smith College sweatshirt and a loose pair of sweats.
Then I step into the closet to take deep breaths.
Five seems like enough, but it’s not until ten that I think I’m capable of hiding my grief and shock at how skinny Mom looks these days, at how weak she seems.
I half expect Sutton to be gone. Didn’t he disappear when I needed him most? But I can hear his voice as I come down the stairs, low and teasing. And then my mother’s voice, answering back.
It feels surreal to walk into the kitchen and see them sitting at the table. Like maybe I fell asleep in the shower and hit my head. This is all a dream, seeing my mother laugh with Sutton.
“What are you doing?” I ask, which is silly considering what they’re holding.
“Gin,” Sutton says, tipping his cards toward me. “And your mother is kicking my behind.”
“And we’re having ice cream.” My mom tucks the spoon almost delicately into the carton and takes a bite. “If you ask very nice, we’ll let you have some.”
It takes me a moment to remind my feet to move, but I manage to cross the parquet floor to the kitchen table and take an empty seat. A glance at the cards laid out reveals that, yes, my mother is kicking Sutton’s behind. Who uses that word anymore? Behind. It’s an old-world kind of manners for him to watch his language around my mother.
“I hope you didn’t bet anything on the game,” I say, picking up a spare spoon.
Sutton nods toward the counter, where a glass case reveals baked goods. “That chocolate chip cookie.”
I stare at him, expecting him to suddenly fly around or transform into a dragon. That’s how strange it is that he got my mother to eat anything, even ice cream. How strange it is that he got her to want food at all. She’s had her share of wheatgrass and barley in her life, and it hasn’t helped her that much. Now I’m just thrilled to see her eating anything, to see her cheeks pink with excitement.
She puts down three aces with a little laugh. “That cookie is as good as mine.”
I scoot my chair a little closer to Sutton. “You obviously need all the help you can get,” I tell him by way of explanation. He gives me a small smile, looking almost bemused.
He’s warm against my side, solid, comforting. He drops his hand to clasp mine, two of his fingers filling my palm. And I feel closer to him in this moment than I did at the Den, when he was inside me.
When my mother wins, she gets up to do a funny little jig and get the chocolate chip cookie. Which then prompts her to get milk and cookies out for everyone.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, soft so that only he can hear. I don’t only mean in this kitchen. I mean in my life. In my heart. What is he doing to me?
“Not courting you,” he murmurs.
That makes me laugh because he’s telling the truth. This is Sutton being an ordinary person, kind and genuine and so damn charming he has my mother eating cookies. If he courted me again, I don’t think I’d even survive it. He’s dangerous, this man. More dangerous than Christopher’s cruel indifference.
“The library,” I murmur. “It’s going to make it, right?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I talked to the foreman yesterday, and he said that they haven’t even applied for permits yet. Or ordered supplies. Or started—”
“They have to ascertain the condition of the building first. Better to be thorough now than have surprises later. But you shouldn’t be in the library, Harper. Not while the foundation is broken. While the foundation is shaky. It’s not safe for you to be there. Promise me.”
Safe? I’m not worried about safe. Sometimes having the roof crash down on my head actually seems appealing. A lot more appealing than a neat little Death Plan, that’s for sure.
My throat feels tight, and I have to turn away. “Harper?” he says.
I can hear the concern in his voice. He’s going to make this about me in a second, but I won’t let him. “No,” I tell him, as normal as I can. “Keep playing. Please.”
Then my mom sits down for another round, and I can turn away blindly, eyes hot with tears, lips pressed tight. I hold it together long enough to make it to my bedroom. I grab a pillow from the bed on my way to the closet before shutting myself inside. And there, with my face pressed into the cotton, muffled to the world around me, I crack into a thousand pieces.
The library looks like a war zone with temporary plaster columns holding up the ceiling and holes drilled into the precious mosaic floor.
I guess you really do have to break something before you can fix it.
Sutton doesn’t want me here, which is why I come after hours. I can think without the jackhammers and sweaty muscled men distracting me. There’s something about this broken wall that makes me ache inside, as if a living being has been injured, as if I need to sew it back together so that it can heal. But not with the butt of a buffalo or the heel of a boot.
That might be a more authentic restoration, but it’s boring. And I have the sense that it would bury the wall instead of making it come alive. This library isn’t going to be a museum. It will have modern books and computers for the community.
The wall should breathe with the community.
I’m doing my part by smoking a joint while I work, folding the sweet, earthy smell into the clay. I’m not sure it helps me create better, but it definitely makes me more willing to try. Which is how I end up on top of a twenty-foot ladder, holding up a piece of sculpted clay to see how it looks. The ladder wobbles for one second, and I hold my breath.
“Do you have a death wish?”
I know who it is before I look down. The electricity along my skin tells me it’s Christopher before I even see his stupid beautiful suit or his dark eyes. Not to mention it’s the same thing he said to me years ago when I sat on the railing of the yacht—only a few minutes before I fell into the water. “What are you doing here?”
“Keeping you from breaking your neck.”
Why does he care? “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not falling.”
“There’s always a second time,” he says, the grimness of his voice proving he remembers the yacht as clearly as I do. How he’d jumped in to save me. How it remained our secret to this day. It’s a kind of thread, that secret, binding us together no matter how far away he seems.
I climb down the ladder with exaggerated care, making sure I don’t even wobble, because he will use any weakness against me. And also because the world is a little spinny right now. Maybe I shouldn’t mix pot and ladders. “I’m not speaking to you.”