Chương 7
The question caught me off guard.
"What?"
"To the house."
I looked toward the empty chair.
The one that had stayed empty while he celebrated.
"Why?"
"Because it is your home."
I almost smiled.
"My home?"
"Yes."
"Interesting."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you did not seem concerned about my home when you moved another woman into my life."
"That is not fair."
The sentence came quickly.
Too quickly.
I sat still.
There it was.
The first crack.
Not guilt.
Defensiveness.
"You think this is unfair?"
"I mean, I know how this looks."
"How does it look?"
"Bad."
I waited.
He sighed.
"Genevieve, I know I hurt you."
"No."
"Please."
"You know you look bad."
Silence.
"You do not know what you did to me."
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he said something I did not expect.
"I miss you."
My throat tightened.
Because part of me hated that those words still mattered.
That part of me was embarrassing.
Human.
Unavoidable.
"I miss who I thought you were," I said.
The silence afterward felt different.
He knew.
Maybe for the first time.
Maybe not.
"Genevieve..."
"I need to sleep."
"Can we talk tomorrow?"
I looked at the phone.
At his name.
At the years attached to it.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because tomorrow I have a meeting with my lawyer."
A long silence followed.
Then his voice changed.
"What?"
There it was.
Fear.
Not sadness.
Not regret.
Fear.
"What did you do?"
I almost laughed.
The question revealed more than he intended.
I had done nothing.
Not yet.
But he already expected consequences.
"I am taking care of myself."
"Genevieve."
"I hope you do the same."
I ended the call before he could answer.
My hands shook afterward.
Not from weakness.
Not from fear.
From the strange grief of realizing that the person I loved had become someone I needed to protect myself from.
I placed the phone down.
Then I reached for the small notebook Eleanor had left beside my bed.
I wrote one sentence.
Not for Marcus.
Not for Julian.
For me.
I stared at the words.
Then I closed the notebook.
For the first time in days, I slept.
The next morning, I woke up before the nurses came in.
For a few seconds, I forgot where I was.
The sunlight coming through the window looked ordinary.
That was the cruel thing about mornings.
They arrived the same way no matter how much your life had changed overnight.
Then I felt the tightness in my chest.
I saw the hospital bracelet around my wrist.
I remembered.
I did not feel the same shock as before.
The first discovery had been an explosion.
The days after were the smoke.
You could not pretend the fire was still burning somewhere else.
It was inside the walls now.
Eleanor arrived carrying a small paper bag and two coffees.
She placed one on the table.
"I know you cannot drink this yet."
I looked at the cup.
"Then why bring it?"
"Because you like smelling coffee when you are annoyed."
I looked at her.
"That is very specific."
"I have worked for you for seven years."
She removed her coat.
"You have a pattern."
"What pattern?"
"When everything is falling apart, you pretend small comforts are unnecessary."
I looked away.
She was right.
I hated when people were right.
It made arguing exhausting.
"Marcus called," she said.
My attention shifted.
"What did he find?"
"He wants to explain in person."
"Again?"
She nodded.
"He said there are developments."
I sighed.
"That phrase is never good."
"No."
She sat down.
"It usually means someone made another mistake."
I looked at the coffee again.
"Did Julian contact you?"
Her expression changed slightly.
That was enough.
"What happened?"
"He called me."
"When?"
"Last night."
I studied her face.
"What did he say?"
She hesitated.
"Eleanor."
"He asked if you were okay."
The answer confused me.
Not because I believed him.
Because I did not know what to do with it.
"That is all?"
"No."
She looked uncomfortable.
"He also asked if you were angry."
I almost smiled.
"Angry."
"Yes."
"Did you answer?"
"I told him I was not the person he needed to talk to."
That was exactly what Eleanor would say.
Direct.
Controlled.
A little colder than necessary.
I appreciated that about her.
"What else?"
She looked down.
"He said he made a mistake."
The room became quiet.
A mistake.
Another person using that word.
"Everyone keeps calling it that."
Eleanor did not respond.
Maybe she understood.
Maybe she did not.
But she did not interrupt.
"Julian does not think he made a mistake," I said.
"What does he think?"
I looked at the window.
"I think he believes he made a difficult choice."
The difference mattered.
A mistake meant you wished you had done something differently.
A difficult choice meant you still believed you had been right.
Eleanor was silent for a moment.
Then she said, "What are you going to do about the house?"
I looked back at her.
"I do not know."
That answer felt strange coming from me.
I always knew.
That was how people described me.
Genevieve knows.
Genevieve will figure it out.
Genevieve has a plan.
But suddenly, I was tired of always having the plan.
"I want to see it."
"The house?"
"Yes."
Eleanor frowned.
"Are you sure?"
"No."
She nodded.
"Good answer."
I looked at her.
"Good?"
"Yes."
She picked up her coffee.
"People who are completely sure after something like this are usually lying to themselves."
I smiled faintly.
"You are becoming philosophical."
"I hate that for both of us."
That made me laugh.
A real laugh.
It hurt.
I immediately stopped.
Eleanor pointed at me.
"See?"
"What?"
"Still reckless."
"I laughed."
"Exactly."
For a few minutes, we talked about nothing important.
The hospital food.
A television playing too loudly in the hallway.
The fact that the vending machine on the second floor had been broken for three days.
May you like
Small things.
Normal things.
