“I don’t have a puppy in my arms,” he said from behind me, pleased with his own restraint.
“Good, because—”
“I’ve got him in a basket.”
Thirteen
I DEVELOPED Astrategy for dealing with Diana: one-word answers only.
It turned out, I was right all along. She didn’t just want me to help her with groceries and stairs. She wanted to hang out. She wanted to be friends.
She wanted forgiveness.
She claimed she was just glad to have me around, but her actions made it clear that she wanted more. Wherever I was, she’d show up there. If I tried to read a book in the living room, she’d read a magazine in the living room. If I was making a snack in the kitchen, she’d make a pot of tea. If I took a stroll down to the rock jetty, she would coincidentally be in the mood for a stroll of her own.
She was companionable. She was low-key. But she failed to comprehend something important: I didn’t want to be her friend.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
In the years after she left, I built my entire life on a foundation of routine and order and low drama. That meant setting schedules and keeping to them. It meant going to the same place and eating the samethings and following the same routines over and over. It also meant doing everything in a careful, controlled, regimented way.
And that was before I’d even moved here. Now I’d turned everything inside out. I had ten times more chaos than I could handle. The last thing I needed was to hash out old disappointments with a woman I’d already given up on.
I was here to be helpful, and pleasant, and do my duty. I was not here to play Bananagrams, or to learn the art of crochet, or to bare my soul. To anybody.
But Diana didn’t get it.
“Answer a question for me,” she said one night as I tried to escape after dinner to practice a little parkour.
“Busy,” I said, at the door.
“You’re always busy.”
“Sorry.”
“There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
I just shrugged and gestured toward the road. “Working out.”
The house was so tiny that those nighttime escapes had become a kind of salvation. I’d jog the narrow streets of the jetty and then on into town and around the coast, vaulting, leaping, climbing, and swinging. It did make it feel like the whole town was a playground.
Usually, by the time I got home, Diana was fast asleep with her white noise machine running. But on this night, she waited up. When I walked back in, she was perched in the living room like a spider.
“Come talk to me for a minute,” she said.
“I’m not really a big talker,” I said.
“You used to be.”
“I used to be a lot of things.”
I sat down, as requested, but I chose the chair closest to the stairs, and I perched at the edge, ready for my quick getaway. As I sat, she studied me. “I want something from you,” she said.
I met her eyes. “What?”
“I want you to forgive me.”
Well, that was blunt. “We don’t always get what we want.”
