Page 34 of Room for Us
What makes some writers antisocial? Is it a fear of intimacy that separates them? A twinned desire to be both accepted and explicitly unique? Or maybe it’s just another tool, like a painter’s brush or a sculptor’s medium.
And the ultimate question: Is this need I have, to pick apart the world around me, a gift or a curse?
I consider the question, and the answer, as I head downstairs to breakfast. And I muse that perhaps the answer is a person. When I’m with Daphne, I don’t feel the darkness.
And last night, drinking tea with my innkeeper, I didn’t feel it, either. I didn’t feel… alone.
Zoey Kemper is a stick of dynamite waiting for a spark. I want to see what happens when she comes too close to the flame, but at the same time, I want to shield her from it. Last night I saw again the rifts of pain inside her, provoked by my errant comment about being alone. I hurt her. I regret it.
But I also want to know why.
The dining room is empty. A large Americano from Beans & Books sits at the single place setting. On the side table, the toaster is prepped with bread, beside it a small plate with a stick of butter and a knife.
The house is quiet in a way that’s becoming familiar to me—old wood shifting and sighing, branches tickling the eaves, the hum of central heat as it clicks on.
Adrift, I linger in the doorway. The motivation to see her this morning eclipses my usual needs for espresso and breakfast. But she’s not here, and I’m suddenly not hungry.
“Son of a whale!”
The muffled curse comes from outside. Swift steps bring me to the window, curtains already drawn to let in the crisp morning light. I have a clear view of the front yard and Zoey, who’s hopping on one foot in the dirt, clutching her opposite shin, her face twisted in pain.
My hands act of their own accord, unlocking and lifting the lower window panel. Leaning down, I call out, “Are you all right?”
Her head pivots in my direction, eyes scanning until she finds me. “I’ll be fine. Just a shoveling mishap.”
I take quick stock of her morning’s work, which seems excessive given it’s not yet nine o’clock. The long dirt beds beneath the porch are raised and churned, dark with new soil. She’s now tackling the narrow channels that run alongside the gravel drive.
“How long have you been at this?” I ask finally.
She sets her foot down, shifting weight to her other leg. There’s no obvious sign of an injury, or at least no blood—I quickly discard the fantasy of carrying her inside and cutting her jeans off.
“I came out a little before sunrise.”
My brows shoot up. “Seriously?”
She grimaces. “Yeah. Guess the chamomile didn’t work. Oh, and you might want to heat up your espresso in the microwave. It’s been there a while.”
I don’t care about the espresso. I care about whether or not she couldn’t sleep because of my insensitive comment last night.
“You should take a break,” I suggest. “Eat some breakfast.”
She mutters something under her breath that sounds like, “Thanks, mom,” and makes me smile. Louder, she replies, “I’m good, thanks. Let me know if you need anything!”
Effectively dismissing me, she picks up her shovel and hobbles forward, then resumes driving into the hard ground, stomping on the head to dig deep, then using all her weight to leverage soil to the side.
I’m amazed by her discipline.
Mesmerized by her misery.
Awed by her perfection.
“Shit,” I whisper.
What have I gotten myself into?
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I grab for it, needing a distraction—any distraction—from this woman who has hijacked my head. With relief, I see Daphne’s name and picture on the screen.
“What’s up, buttercup?”
