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I stared into his eyes for a long moment. “You’re not mad?”
“About what?”
I held up my arm as if he hadn’t just referenced the tattoo.
He shook his head. “Why would I be mad? Lina told me you got a purple elephant. I know it’s a tribute to your father. I understand. I wish you’d waited until after the baby’s born, but I’m not angry.”
“After the baby’s born?” I said, lying back and staring up at the vaulted ceiling.
Marc didn’t comment on my skepticism that this pregnancy would go full-term. “Come downstairs when you’re ready. I have something to show you.”
I looked him in the eye. “A surprise?”
He shook his head and smiled. “Better.”
“Better than a surprise? Is it decaf coffee that actually tastes good?”
He laughed. “Even better. Come on,” he said, planting a kiss on my cheek before disappearing into the upstairs hallway.
I listened to his footsteps going down the stairs before I got out of bed. I quickly brushed my teeth and hair, then plodded down in yesterday’s clothes. I had to find that tattoo care package they sent me home with yesterday, so I could change my dressing.
I found Marc in the kitchen, sitting at the breakfast bar with two cups of tea and a plate of my favorite chocolate dipped shortbread cookies from the Dutch bakery around the corner. I sat down on the stool next to him, smiling at the tag hanging over the rim of my mug. Marc made me orange-scented black tea. He knew that was my favorite tea to drink with my favorite cookies.
“Ask me anything,” he said after I’d had my first sip.
I reached for a cookie and smiled. “Is this a game or something?”
He shook his head. “No games or tricks. I’m ready to talk.”
I put the cookie back without taking a bite. “Anything?”
He was silent for a long moment before he finally nodded. “Anything.”
I felt the muscles in my chest contract. “Why now?”
He stared at his cup of tea for a moment before he answered. “I always wanted to wait until we had our first child. I was… I was afraid if I told you before, then you’d either leave me or decide you didn’t want to have children with me.”
Now my stomach tensed up as I anticipated what kind of secret could possibly make me leave Marc. I didn’t think there was anything in the world that could make me voluntarily check out other than a complete and utter betrayal of our marriage. His secrecy was verging on that, which I presumed was what prompted this change of heart. He must have sensed my desire to start a fight with him and knew I was trying to find a way out.
I shook my head. “You’re scaring me, Marc. I… I don’t know if I want to know.” I reached up to touch his smooth, freshly-shaven jaw. “Maybe knowing I can ask you anything — when I’m ready to ask — is enough…for now.”
He grabbed my hand and placed a lingering kiss in the center of my palm. “I’m ready when you are… No more secrets.”
I smiled as he sandwiched my hand between both of his, making it disappear. “No more secrets.”
Playing Tricks
As Walker approaches the easel, I step backward, keeping a safe distance between us. “What are you playing at?” The words come out of my mouth low and harsh, like a warning, as I keep my eyes locked on him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought you wanted me to paint you,” he says, glancing at the canvas.
My gaze flicks toward the painting, and I do a double-take. The portrait I saw of The Last Supper has been transformed into a vague outline of a woman lying on some grass. The woman’s facial features haven’t been fleshed out yet, but she seems to be wearing the same clothing as I am.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Walker asks, his voice soft and reassuring despite my outburst.
I shake my head. “I think…maybe the heat is getting to me. I… I should probably lie down.”
He nods, but he doesn’t follow me inside. I feel like leaving him alone outside to clean up everything is like a metaphor for my life. I’ve always been impulsive and reckless. And it’s always been the ones I love who are left to clean up my mess.
I’m beginning to wonder if my brain’s trying to protect me from knowing the truth. Why else would it show me these flashes of memories, then whisk them away before I can fully understand them?
Maybe the truth is I’m not a good person.
The downstairs bedroom feels colder than usual. I stare at the lace curtain fluttering with the evening breeze, and I pray for the first time in a year. I’m too out of practice to do it freestyle, instead, opting to recite the serenity prayer, which is engraved on the plaque hanging on the wall.
The room is just bright enough for me to read the words on the plaque. The serenity prayer is one of the few embedded so deeply in my brain, I could probably recite it in my sleep. The words on the plaque are not exactly the same as the serenity prayer I remember from Sunday school, but this version will do.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I cannot accept,
and the wisdom to know the difference.
Should I accept that my brain seems to have more than a few screws loose? Do I have the courage to admit this to Walker? Am I wise enough to know when it’s time to go home?
I toss the covers off and slide out of bed. I tread softly as I cross the bedroom and climb the stairs to the second floor, trying to avoid stepping on the creakiest floorboards.
The door to Walker’s bedroom is wide open. As I approach, I try to think of what I’ll say when I wake him. But when I arrive at the threshold, I find him awake, sitting on the windowsill, gazing out at the night sky. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, and his dark hair is wild, as if he’d been tossing and turning before he got up.
I enter without announcing my presence, but a creaky floorboard does it for me. Walker turns his head slowly to watch me approach. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me in his bedroom.
I stand next to him and look out the window to see what he’s gazing at. The sky is pitch black and studded with twinkling stars of various sizes and colors. It’s not a city night sky, muted by light pollution. It’s a brilliant, shimmering cloak wrapped around the world, beckoning us to embrace the night.
When I turn away from the window, Walker is staring at me, a new quiet confidence in his eyes. The moonlight paints silvery streaks over his cheekbones, collarbone, and pectoral muscles. He looks beautiful enough to paint.
Taking a cue from the look in his eyes, I turn toward him to let him see all of me. His gaze skims over every inch of my body, stopping for a while on my breasts. Taking a step forward, I take his hand in mine and hold it for a moment. When his eyes look up to meet mine, I lay his hand on my chest, so he can feel my heartbeat.
The corners of his mouth turn up at the sensation of my pulse pounding against his fingertips. “You are real.”
I nod and try not to cry as I imagine how lonely Walker must have been before I crashed into his life. He must have been questioning his reality these past few days, just as I have been.
“I’ll prove it to you,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him toward the twin bed.
We sit on the edge of the mattress holding hands for a few minutes. Finally, I gather the courage to remove the oversized Philadelphia Eagles T-shirt Walker let me use as a nightgown. His mouth drops open at the sight of my naked breasts.
He swallows hard and draws in a deep breath. “Is… Is it okay for us to be doing this?”
I suddenly feel more exposed than I did ten seconds ago. “Of course, it’s okay,” I reply. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
He tears his gaze away from my chest to look into my eyes. “Because…you’re… You’re not my wife.”
Something about the way he says this makes me worry that he has a wife somewhere. Otherwise, he would have questioned whether it was wrong because we’re no
t married.
“I…know I’m not your wife,” I begin, keeping my tone soft. “Do you have a wife?”
He looks surprised by this question. “Me? A wife?” He chuckles as he shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”
