Page 54 of Fox
I look at the kitchen counter. At the herbs in the window—the ones I planted last spring, that Fox has been watering, that I have watched him water with the careful attention of a man who has been given instructions and is following them like a religion.
“I don’t know how to stop this.”
“You just tell the truth to him like you just did to me.”
I flick my gaze toward her, humor tugging at my mouth. “Fox isn’t you, Dina.”
“No shit!”
“And”—I tilt my head—“I like it. I like his attention. I like how he’s taking care of me.”
I sigh because I know what I’m doing is loathsome, lying to the poor man the way I am, hurting him the way I am by making him think that I forgot him because of emotional distress caused by him. He blames himself for the accident. I blame him, too, even though it’s that idiot truck driver’s fault and mine for not driving more carefully.
“Am I a bad person, Dina?”
She leans down and hugs me.
“Ouch,” I whimper.
She kisses both my cheeks, Persian style. “Lucy, my love, you’re one of the best people I know.”
“But—“
“Our imperfections are what make life interesting,” Dina declares, rising and walking to the café windows that open onto the porch.
She turns and smiles at me. “He lied to you for the entire time you were married, Lucy. He let you love him without loving you back—or without knowing that he did, which amounts to the same thing when you’re the one on the receiving end. The moron had to almost lose you, body and soul, before he figured himself out.”
Dina considers me for a moment. “But that doesn’t mean you owe him a clean slate before he’s earned one. You’re allowed to want proof, the irrefutable kind, before you give yourself to him again.” She pauses. “And that includes your memories.”
“It’s getting complicated, though,” I confess.
“Because?”
“Because he’s—” I search for the word. “He’s different. He’s doing things he never used to do, and I don’t know if it’s guilt, or if something actually shifted, or if he’s just a better liar than I thought, and I can’t—” I press my fingers to my eyes briefly, carefully, my head still occasionally reminding me of its recent adventures. “I can’t tell anymore what’s real.”
“What does your gut say?”
“My gut”—I groan—“has historically been terrible about Fox Bennett. I would like my gut to recuse itself from this situation.”
Dina chuckles. “I think he’s in love with you.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” I counter.
She rolls her eyes at me.
“I need to tell him.” I feel miserable just thinking about that conversation. “I know that. I know I need to come clean. I just—” I throw my hands up in exasperation and wince because I’ve moved in a way that hurts.
“There’s no rush. He’s not going anywhere. And considering you have four broken ribs and you’re still concussed, you aren’t going anywhere either. So enjoy your husband catering to your every need. Get foot rubs, and I don’t know, ask him to go down on you…”
“With my broken ribs?”
Dina gives me a crooked grin. “Why not?”
I shoot her a flat, unimpressed stare.
“Whatever he’s doing, Lucy, out of guilt or love or both—you deserve it. Every bit of it. You deserve someone running around after you.” She meets my eyes. “You’ve been taking care of everyone else your whole life. Let someone take care of you.”
“He is doing that, better than I could’ve ever imagined,” I admit. “He remembers things, Dina.”
