“We’re never going to catch my father.”
“You will. He’s just slimy.”
“He’s too smart. Too well connected. I don’t think there is a police force, airport, government authority, or crime group anywhere that he doesn’t have a contact in … Why are they mashing potatoes through a sieve?”
“I gave up trying to understand this TV show when you were on your first cigarette. That ginger guy just compressed a tomato.”
He sighs, like it’s genuinely the TV program that’s distressing him, and not everything else. “What is the point of it all?”
“Dunno,” I say, putting a biscuit in my mouth. “You’ll get your father, Alex. It’s a waiting game.”
“I just want to be done with him. We’ve been through enough. We’ve waited long enough.”
“It feels like that, but three months isn’t that long.”
“When you had to wait three months for a new book to release you said three months was the longest time period imaginable. And when I said, ‘What about four months?’ you told me to mind my own business.”
Ididsay that, but I don’t admit it. “Oh dear. Deteriorating eyesightandmemory. You’re a lost cause, Corbeau.”
“I am.”
Somehow, we’ve ended up horizontal, spooning on the too-narrow sofa with the TV blaring. A contented silence settles in the dated living room as we watch Clare make a mess of plating her dauphinoise and pretend the world isn’t burning around us.
When the judge says he appreciates the rosemary that went into the roux, Alex turns the TV off like a disgusted football fan, covering my ears until the sound stops, like I’m a child and he doesn’t want me to hear something inappropriate. “That’s bullshit. Don’t listen to them, baby. You were right about the roux; they were wrong.”
“I’m going to email in and complain.”
He sighs, his body tense behind me. I rotate where I lie on the sofa, so we’re almost nose to nose. I think we’re both delirious from lack of sleep. “We’ll get through this, Alex. And then we’ll get through the next thing. And the next.”
He smiles, and it makes my heart skip a beat. “I’m tired ofthings.”
“Tough luck. Life is full ofthings.”
His smile is soft, finger tracing down my nose. “Thank you for being mine.”
“Thank you for coming to that life drawing class.”
“I’m irrational. I can’t bear the thought of someone else drawing you.”
I bite my lip. “Jealous, Alex?”
His hand moves down, thumb pressing against the spot where my pulse hammers in my neck. “I’m sick with envy at the wind that slips through the holes in your knitted sweaters, Winters. Jealous doesn’t cover it.”
“You don’t need to be.” My grin is involuntary, but it feels so good. I like jealous Alex.
His eyes are alight again, no longer endless pools of desperation. I run my finger over the scar beneath his eyebrow. His father’s handiwork.
I hate Cain Green for so many reasons.
His throat works with a swallow, stare fixed on the world beyond my yellowing curtains. The sun is setting outside, copper shards of light illuminating the crumbling terraces on my street. A plane cuts through the haze, and like he’s reading my mind, he says, “I have to fly home soon.”
“I know.”
“I have no idea when I’ll next have time to come to see you.”
“You deserve so much more than what I can give you.” I’ve been trying to listen to fear-of-flying podcasts so I can come visit him, but my fear runs so deep, braided with so much trauma, I’m getting nowhere. “The distance is just anotherthing, Alex. We’ll get through it.”
He’s tense, muscles taut as though he’s holding something in. “You should know what you’re getting yourself into with me. I need you to be sure.”
