Page 163 of Dream House
I pull into the garage and my palms sweat against the steering wheel as I kill the engine.
“Can we talk?” he calls as soon as I open the car door.
I exhale a breath. This isn’t going to be easy. Because he’ll be decent. And kind. He’s going to try to let me down gently. Try to explain that it’s not me; it’s him. No matter what he says, it’ll hurt. I might cry again. It might derail all my plans to get to work on my salon today. To keep my mind off him.
“Now?” I call back, not ready to look over my shoulder and meet his gaze.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, feet slap against the pavement and when I glance in the rearview, Lark is walking toward the garage. His head is low. His shoulders slumped.
Pen was right. He does look like a dog expecting a beating.
I climb out of the car and meet him halfway. Getting dumped is bad enough. Getting dumped in my grandmother’s garage is unacceptable.
I keep my eyes on the driveway until the tips of his worn Nike gym shoes come into view. Gym shoes shouldn’t look cute, but my heart still twinges at the sight of them.
“Stella, please look at me.”
I bargain with myself that if I don’t let myself cry in front of him, I get a glass of wine and an hour in the tub tonight to feel all my feelings.
Accepting my own offer, I raise my gaze.
Lark. Looks. Terrible.
The luster of his blue eyes has faded beside bloodshot whites. Ashy smudges testify he hasn’t slept much the last two nights. His lips are dry and chapped.
Is he drinking enough? Eating enough? In spite of everything, I want to wrap him in my arms and never let go.
Two glasses of wine and a bath bomb,I tell myself, sweetening the no-crying deal.
“I need you to know… I wanted to stay.”
My brain is stuck in sidewalk gum. This isn’t what I was expecting to hear. I squint up at him.
“What?”
“I wanted to stay with you Saturday night. I should have.”
I blink. “Wh-why didn’t you?”
My imagination sends me a bevy of awful reasons for why he left. I snored. I kicked his shins—I’ve been known to do that. I farted in my sleep.
Please, God, no.
“I don’t want to get married,” Lark blurts.
And if I was stunned before, I’m practically knocked sideways now.
“I-I didn’t ask you to marry me,” I stammer, instantly defensive.Shit, did I propose in my sleep? No wonder he headed for the hills.
Lark drags a hand through his hair, looking miserable. “I know that. I know that. It’s just—
But I get it. He’s twenty-three. Still in college. I’m looking down the barrel of thirty. I have a kid. I’m settled here. Very settled.
Lark has his whole life ahead of him. He can live anywhere he wants. Someplace with caves and earthquakes and rainbow colored rocks.
Of course, he’s not looking for something serious. Of course, he doesn’t want to get tangled up in my life. Of course, he didn’t want to make breakfast together yesterday morning, declaring our happy union in front of the whole household.
“I understand,” I say before he can speak another word.
