CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
TESS
It wasnever a competition between his late-wife and me. The halves of his life wereseparate in my eyes and I could never compare. But with every word he spoke tome, I imagined it was the first time he had said them, and with every time hetouched me, I imagined it was the first time he’d held someone so tight.
Becausehe said he was afraid to love me more. Maybe he already did.
***
“What are youthinking about?”
Jon’s long fingerstraced the curve of my shoulder, down my arm, and back again. He loved touchingme in these repetitive ways, almost as if he were memorizing every rounded edgeand every sharp line, until he knew my body by heart.
My lungs emptied into thedark bedroom and I shook my head. I didn’t want to answer. Not wanting to talkabout it—the conversation I’d had with my parents, back at Grandma’s house,after the funeral and lunch. Instead, I just wanted to revel in this, thesehappy moments of natural bliss, with our arms wrapped tightly around each otherin an impenetrable bubble.
“You’re so quiet,” hecommented. “What’s wrong?”
He wasn’t going tostop, so I sighed again and replied, “I really don’t want to talk about itright now, Jon.”
“You sure?” he gentlypried.
“I’m sure,” I insisted,pulling from his grasp and his soothing touch, to sit at the edge of the bed. Ifumbled in the dark for the t-shirt I’d taken from him and put it on. “I thinkI’m going to make some tea. You want a cup?”
“Yeah, all right.”
Concern lingered in hisvoice, but I chose to ignore it. I got up from the bed and left the room,turning on the kitchen light and putting the kettle on. As I waited for thewater to bubble and boil, I dropped into a chair at the table and brought myfingers to my temples, rubbing in slow, firm circles. God, I could still hearthem talking; my parents in Grandma’s living room, standing over her belovedrecliner. With hands on their hips, they’d surveyed the room,all ofher shelves and outdated furniture, and casuallymentioned that the house needed to be sold. “As soon as we can,” Dad had said,wanting to be rid of the burden of maintaining two households. And while Iunderstood, I wasn’t unaware of the knife twisting deep inside my chest.
She was barely cold inthe ground, and my parents were already discussing what charities to donate herfurniture to. It wasn’t from a place of cold-heartedness. They were just busypeople with busy lives, and they simply wanted to move on. But I wasn’t ready,yet it wasn’t my call to make.
“Tess?”
My thoughts had takenme away from my task, and I only snapped out of it when I saw Jon hurry acrossthe floor to remove the whistling teapot from the burner. “I’m sorry,” Imuttered regrettably, laying my hands over my face. The girls were asleep, Iknew better than to neglect the kettle.
“It’s okay,” he assuredme, but he was a liar. Nothing was okay. Not right now.
Jon poured the waterinto two mugs and set them on the table before sitting down. He grasped myhands and pulled them away from my face. Warm eyes sought mine, and I thought,how funny is this. Months ago, I’d met him, this cold, broken man sporting ahole in the shape of his heart. And here we were, our roles reversed.
“Come on, Tess,” hewhispered. “Talk to me.”
He was so sweet, soconcerned, and I couldn’t handle it. My bottom lip wriggled, and recollectionfilled his gaze as he reached for a napkin.
“I’m so sick ofcrying,” I found myself saying. He managed a smile and replied, “You’re supposedto cry. But you’ll feel better if you talk to me.”
I guess he’d know.
I grabbed the paper taghanging from the string over the side of my mug and swirled the teabag throughthe steaming water. The sachet of leaves and herbs bobbed beneath the water’s surface,struggling to rise, struggling to breathe. There was a metaphor there; it wasdrowning. Just like me.
So, I talked: “Myparents are selling Grandma’s house. They can’t afford to keep it, and I can’tafford to buy it from them. So, they need to get rid of it as soon as possible,and I just—"
“If you had the money,would youreallybuy it from them?”Jon asked, propping his bristled chin in the palm of his hand.
I lifted my gaze fromthe tea to his face. “Huh?”
“You said you can’tafford to buy it from them, so I’m asking, if youdidhave the money, would you really want to?”
It was absurd for me tothink, for just a second, that he was offering me money. I knew better. Jondidn’t have any money. Not yet. And after that initial fluster of assumptionleft me, I screwed my face up with confusion.
“I’ve known that housemyentire life, Jon.” I neverintended to feel attacked, or to sound defensive, dropping the tag unceremoniouslyinto the blackened water and crossing my arms over my chest. But I did, becauseI was instantly mad. At his tone, at my parents, at the entire world. “I haveso many memories there. The bulk of my childhood was spent there. It’s … it’sher.”
