“You didn’t do it. I know for a fact where you were all night.”
“You’re my alibi,” I said, smiling without thinking about how I’d almost implied something I hadn’t meant to. We’d been together. But we were not together. Not like that. The damned blush threatened again and I cursed my ginger complexion.
“It would be really nice if you could put it back,” she said, letting my strange innuendo go.
“Think Verda will retaliate?”
Addie lifted a shoulder. “Lottie might.”
“This needs to end.”
“I agree,” she said. “But maybe it’s close. I mean, look at us. A Tanner and a Tucker sitting in a dilapidated old house having muffins.”
“We are the future.”
She chuckled, and I stood, picking up my keys and heading for the door. “I’ll see you later. Do you have my number in case you need to reach me today?”
We exchanged phone numbers, and I tried not to feel like a dude at a bar who’d just scored the pretty girl’s digits. Those days were long since past.
16
Sandstorm
Addison
Michael left me with a strange feeling wending through me, one that was not altogether unpleasant, but one that made me wary. It was comfortable, being with him. And sitting in the kitchen of our shared haunted house, eating muffins, had felt very domestic, and normal. It was something I could do every day for the rest of my life and feel content. There were the other things too, the way my stomach leapt when he met my eyes, the way my skin heated when he brushed against me accidentally, the way my mind had gone to very naughty places when he’d held me against his bare chest late at night.
But none of that really mattered.
I was at a decision point in my life, and this interlude was merely that—a way for me to take a breath before getting back to the things I’d chosen. But right now, all those things reminded me of Luke. And a dark chill swept through me when I thought of him. Of how he’d left. Of the fact that I still hadn’t heard a word from him.
Eight years had been easy enough for him to brush away like specks of unwanted dust on his sleeve, so why was I struggling so much to let it go?
The odd thing was, I didn’t feel heartbroken. At first I had, I thought. But in the wild tangle of emotions Luke left in his wake—shock, disappointment, loneliness—it had been hard to pull one thing from another. And there had seemed to be a few feelings that didn’t completely fit the situation too.
Like relief.
Had I persevered in the relationship with Luke mostly because it was habit? Because we’d put in so many years together by the time I might have questioned it that it seemed wasteful to let it all go and move on?
I sighed, picking at the last muffin on my plate as my mind twirled through realities I didn’t want to face. One thing was crystal clear, even if everything else was murky and uncertain: I’d trusted Luke, depended on him. And it had been a mistake. I’d ended up hurt and alone, and that was my own fault as much as his. I should never have given him that power over me. And I’d never do it again.
Which was why I needed to decide what I was doing with my life. Six months, I told myself. And then I’d go back to New York and pick up the pieces. I talked to my manager on the phone the day before, and while he sounded uncertain, he hadn’t said no. So I thought there was a good chance I’d get my job back. If I wanted it. I’d give the situation with Luke time to flush through me, give myself time to think through next steps. We’d sell the house, I’d have some money, and then I’d go back and begin again.
The roofers arrived at nine-thirty, and seemed to need no direction from me at all. They put up ladders and ropes, and soon the whole exterior was swarming with men climbing up and down, dropping things to the ground and pulling things up.
It was reassuring, having them out there. As if the ghosts that inhabited the place couldn’t act if there were witnesses.
While the men outside worked, I moved the scant furniture from the parlor and entryway. Once the rooms were clear, I eyed the big drum sander Michael had brought from somewhere, wondering if this machine and I were going to be able to work together.
“Use it like a vacuum cleaner,” he’d said. “Just go slowly and evenly. Don’t linger in one spot too long.”
“I can do this,” I said, mostly to myself, but I figured the ghosts might appreciate my confidence too. With that, I grabbed the handles and switched the thing on. It hummed to life, vibrating roughly beneath my hands, and I followed Michael’s directions, leaving a dusty wake behind me.
The day passed quickly in a haze of sawdust and hammer sounds, and for the first time in weeks, I felt as if I’d accomplished something. When Michael returned—much later than he’d hoped, since returning the moose turned out to be quite difficult once Verda noticed the Tuckers replacing the sculpture out in her garden and called the police—I’d sanded the two rooms I’d cleared.
“You did a good job,” he said, wandering through the rooms and looking at my work.
“It wasn’t hard with that huge sander, I guess,” I said.
“You’re pretty strong though,” he told me. “That thing tires people out, and you have to be a certain size to handle it.”
I flexed one of my arms, making my bicep bunch up beneath the sleeve of my flannel shirt. “Guess all those gym classes paid off then.”
The men were wrapping up outside, and we went out to talk to the foreman, who said they’d return on Saturday to finish the work. Already, the house looked fresher, with the very top already sporting new slate tiles. The previous tiles, the roofer had said, had lasted more than a century—something he attributed to the durable nature of slate. That had figured into our decision to spend a small fortune to replace the roof with a fresh layer of slate instead of the less expensive wood shingles he offered.
“It’s gonna look good,” Michael said.
“Hey, Dad.” Daniel appeared then, coming around the back of the property past the little one-car garage, wheeling his bike at his side. “Ms. Tanner.”
“Hi Daniel,” I said, feeling awkward for no reason I could discern around the boy. I took a step away from Michael and then wondered what in the world had made me do it. “You can call me Addie,” I added.
“The house is a disaster,” Daniel observed, glancing around the lawn, which was strewn with pieces of old roof tiles.
“They’ll clean up when they’re done,” Michael said. “But watch your step out here, okay?”
Daniel shrugged, leaning his bike against the railing of the back porch and letting himself inside.
Michael offered to cook, but Daniel talked him into ordering pizza, and we ate it around the little table in the kitchen. Daniel told us about school and asked his father a million questions about the moose that had appeared in the town square again.
As the evening wound down, I began to feel awkward—it wasn’t like we could all lounge on the couch in front of the television. We didn’t have a television. Or a couch. And so I excused myself to my room.
“You’ll be okay?” Michael asked me in a way that had Daniel squinting his eyes and looking between us.