Page 169 of Dream House
Behind my closed eyes, I see his face from this morning. Before, all I could recall was how I felt. The pain. The humiliation. The feeling of being set up. How he made it sound like deciding to leave me in bed was to teach me some kind of lesson.
That knowledge still hurts. It was like a stab wound this morning. But now, and maybe this is thanks to the multiple glasses of wine and the caressing water, it’s more like an ache. A deep, intimate cramp.
And it brings the memory of his face into sharper focus. How awful he looked when I first climbed out of my car to face him. How he paled when I reminded him of what we had shared. How I had let him see something no one else had seen.
I touched myself in front of him. I touched myself for him. And, right now, I can’t make myself regret it. Even if it meant less to him. It meant something greater to me. It meant that I can trust another person. That I can take a risk and share something sacred.
And even after what happened Sunday morning, what happened this morning, I can’t regret that the person I shared that with was Lark.
Because I don’t feel lessened by that experience. Even in the face of this pain. Yes, I feel loss. But I don’t feel less.
I feel more.
And maybe that’s what this life is all about. Feeling more.
I take a sip of my wine and I don’t try to stop the tears that slip from the corners of my eyes. Because it’s been a very long time since I really let myself feel. Feel all of it. Pain. Vulnerability. Joy. Love.
No matter what happens. No matter if Lark comes home tomorrow ready to pack up and leave, he has helped me to find this depth in myself.
And I’ll always be grateful for that.
And even though I haven’t begun to mourn this budding love, this love that feels so much greater and deeper than reason can explain—and I know I will mourn it—I’m grateful for that too.
My tears fall steadily and my soft sobs make ripples in the bath water until I discover that my legs feel heavy.
Also, my wine glass is almost empty.
I shift forward in the tub and set the glass on Nanna’s vanity bench. The slow swish of the bath water gives me a touch of vertigo. Okay, I’m not drunk yet, but I can see it from here. Time to get out of the tub.
Clutching the smooth lip of the slipper tub to steady myself, I stand, water sluicing off my body. My skin is red from the bath’s heat, and I grab the fluffy towel from the wall-mounted rack and swab my face, neck, and shoulders.
I go still when I hear the back gate.
My heart thuds hard, and I know it’s not just from wine or hot water. It has to be Lark. He’s home.
The irrational urge to go to him rushes over me and I step out of the bath. I scrub water off my back and legs, not even sure what I want to say to him, just that I want to lay eyes on him, let him see what I feel for him. Reassure myself he’s okay, and hope for the best.
I expect to hear the snick of the back door’s lock. But that’s not what I hear.
Not at all.
The sound that carries through my room is at first a squeak, like a protesting of branches in a gale, and then a wrenching, shuddering rattle.
Too close. My French doors.
Someone is in my room.
I yank my robe from the hook on the door and whip it around me. I knot the tie with shaking hands, blood roaring in my ears.
My only thought as I whip the bathroom door open is getting to Maisy.
But when I see him, I freeze.
Hateful eyes. Aquiline nose. Sharply groomed goatee.
It’s amazing what the mind records in a moment of terror. Like the way the wood is split on the left side of my French door, the deadbolt jutting out like a broken bone… the fluttering of my gauzy curtains as the breeze from the open door teases them...
The dull black of the crowbar clutched in Kaleb Doucet’s hand...
