“For self-defense,” he says, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.
My eyes widen. “Since when?”
He shrugs slightly. “Since forever, I guess.”
“For as long as I’ve known you?” The question comes out sharper than I mean it to, but something cold has already begun to spread through me.
“Yeah.” He pushes back the covers and heads toward the bathroom.
I stare after him, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I never thought about it,” he calls from the doorway.
My mouth goes dry. “Where do you keep it?”
“In a lockbox in the closet.”
“Oh.” The word falls flat. My mind searches frantically for some memory of it, some indication that a loaded gun has beensitting in our house all these years, but there is nothing. Only the growing discomfort of realizing there has been something this significant, this dangerous, living quietly alongside us the entire time without my knowledge.
Bennett comes back out a minute later, already moving toward the closet to pull down a pair of running shorts. “I’m going for a run,” he says, glancing at me. Then he pauses. “This is really bothering you, huh?”
I nod, still caught somewhere between fear and hurt. I’m almost embarrassed by how shaken I feel, but I can’t help it. His not telling me feels bigger than the gun itself, as though I’ve discovered a hidden room in a house I thought I knew by heart.
Without another word, he turns back to the closet, digs through a stack of clothes, and then returns to the bed with a small black box in his hands. He sits beside me, spins the combination, opens it, and turns it so I can see.
“There,” he says. “That’s it.”
I suck in a breath at the sight of the sleek black handgun resting inside. It looks both smaller and more menacing than I would have expected, compact and quiet in a way that feels somehow worse.
“Is it loaded?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Yes.” He nods. “I keep it ready in case of a break-in or something.”
“Or something,” I repeat quietly. My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “I’ve never been around guns.”
I think of my parents, of Kathy Williams chasing vodka with anxiety medication, of Jon pretending order could fix every mess, and I have to laugh inwardly at the thought. The only things they ever shot were espresso and vodka.
“They’re not that scary if you know how to handle them,” Bennett says.
I look at him. “Do you?”
He shrugs. “I go to the range sometimes. Just enough to know I can hit a target if I need to.”
I stare at him for a beat longer than I should. “I don’t like that I’ve been living with a loaded gun in the house for our entire marriage and didn’t know it. That feels like something you tell your wife.”
“It just never came up,” he says.
“But I’m not exactly comfortable sleeping ten feet away from a deadly weapon.”
His expression changes slightly then, something more guarded slipping into place. “You don’t trust me?”
“No.” I shake my head quickly. “Of course I trust you. That’s not what I mean. I just…” I trail off, frustrated by how impossible it is to explain. “It feels strange. That’s all.”
“But what?” he presses gently. “I haven’t taken it out in over a year. Honestly, you’d probably be surprised how many of the men in this neighborhood have at least one gun for protection. And you’re the one convinced there’s a killer living next door.”
I let out a slow breath, my thoughts still reeling. “Yeah.” I push myself out of bed, the room still hazy with sleep and leftover panic, and watch him relock the box and slide it back into the closet. “I think I’m just on edge after everything.”
“Understandably.” He pulls a white shirt over his head, rakes a hand through his hair, and offers me a small, easy smile. “I’ll be back in a bit. Call me if you need anything, okay?”
