But when he returned from the extra room, I could already tell that my rushing him out wouldn’t be necessary. His face had done that thing. He went slack and pale like the first night. I knew it as sure as anything he was about to leave. His focus was somewhere else. At least I was fairly certain his shift in mood wasn’t about me anymore. Hopefully.
It was this place. It was why he tried so hard not to rent it out. How he hated being inside.
He set down the first-aid kit.
“I’m going to go,” he said, not meeting my gaze.
I bit my cheek to keep from asking what was wrong, to stop from prying.
Whatever was going on with him wasn’t my business. This wasn’t my life or world. I was passing through, and I’d already done enough damage.
“Okay,” I said softly.
He stood, the color still gone from his face. He wasn’t looking at me but seemed careful not to look around.
“Thank you,” I said again.
“You would have been fine,” he said, almost to the door.
“Probably,” I admitted. “But I appreciate you all the same.”
He nodded.
As his hand was on the door, he stopped moving, his back to me.
“I’m glad I could help,” he said. His stance had a set intensity like he battled to say more.
“Are you okay?” I meant, in general, from the rain and cold and the adrenaline rush of saving someone.
He didn’t take it that way. He thought I meant the shift in his mood. He shook his head. “It’s—It’s hard for me to be here. In this house.”
“Oh.” I was taken aback by his sudden honesty. “I’m sorry.”
“My mother lived here. This was her place. She was very ill at the end, and—” He shook his head, back still facing me. “It’s hard for me to be here,” he repeated.
Hismother. He was grieving his mother. The missing piece explaining his mercurial temperaments slid into place. My heart stuttered in sympathy. I lost my mother over ten years ago, and I still ached for her every day.
“I just wanted you to know. This house, there’s a lot of memories here.” It was like he wanted to say more and make me understand something. His sadness was a heavy storm that blocked out whatever light had been trying to break through. How long had he been grieving? How was he handling his loss?
“That’s understandable,” I said.
“I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Okay,” I repeated.
I clenched my fists to keep from getting up and reaching for him.
Instead, I focused on cleaning my wound and putting on the bandage. He snuck out so quietly that only the blastof cold air signaled his leaving.
It was silent after he was gone, except for the sloshing water of the washer and the crackle of the fire.
After several minutes of silence and processing what happened, I noticed the door to the mystery room was ajar. The room he’d normally left locked and explicitly told me to leave alone.
I could be bigger than my curiosity to learn more about this enigma of a man. I could wait for him to reveal more parts of himself to me. I wished I wasn’t so drawn to him. I wished that I could leave him be and respect his need for privacy without wanting to peel back his layers.
I had to respect his rules.
Right?
