Anne looked away at once. “Perhaps because I am being interrogated in my own home?”
“That is quite strange, because you look happier than you have in years.”
The honesty of it landed harder than Anne had expected.
Eleanor reached for her arm and grasped it gently. “That frightens you far more than anything,” she said. “I know how you feel, Anne, so believe me when I tell you that you cannot fight it. You will be worn down by it if you do not accept what is staring at you.”
Anne did not answer immediately because Eleanor was not entirely wrong.
Eleanor remained quiet for a moment after that, gentler now, though Anne recognized immediately that the silence meant something worse than teasing was coming. It meant observation, which somehow always proved far more dangerous.
They continued slowly along the garden path, gravel crunching softly beneath their shoes while late afternoon settled around them in stretches of pale gold and shadow.
“May I ask you something?” Eleanor asked carefully.
Anne sighed. “You are going to regardless.”
“Do you want him?”
Anne nearly stumbled. “What?”
“Your husband,” Eleanor said simply. “Do you want him?”
Heat rushed into Anne’s face. “That is an outrageous question. I am not discussing this.”
“You absolutely are.”
Anne looked away at once, horrified by the fact that the answer itself had arrived far too quickly in her mind for comfort. Eleanor noticed, of course.
“You hesitated.”
“I did not.”
“You looked deeply offended by your own thoughts.”
Anne stopped walking again. “I hate you,” she muttered.
“No, you do not,” Eleanor replied pleasantly. “You merely hate being understood.”
Anne crossed her arms, her gaze fixed stubbornly somewhere over Eleanor’s shoulder.
Eleanor waited, but Anne said nothing.
“Anne.” Something in her voice made resistance feel suddenly more exhausting than honesty.
“I do not know,” Anne admitted finally. “Something has changed. I used to know exactly where the boundaries were. Everything felt simple. Practical. We had an arrangement.”
“And now?”
“Now he lingers.”
Eleanor blinked, clearly waiting for her to continue.
Anne did not want to, for she knew that her friend already understood far too much and that she was all too aware of what was happening, but there was another part of her that was grateful for it. Despite what she was saying, she so desperately wanted to be understood, and it was killing her that she was not.
“He lingers,” she repeated, sounding faintly irritated by the fact. “When conversations should end, he stays. He notices when something is wrong before I say anything. He looks at me differently, as though he might actually like me rather than considering me a burden.”
Eleanor stayed silent, wisely allowing the moment space.
