Page 18 of Grouch-ish

Pear is quiet a moment, but I can feel her eyes on me as I crouch down to further inspect the busted drawer.

“I have an ex, too.”

I freeze before slowly standing. “Who the fuck would leave you?”

Those raised brows morph into a startled expression. “Actually, I left him.”

“Of course you did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” With her hip cocked, she places one fist on it and glares at me, those blue eyes icy.

“It means no man in his fucking right mind would leave you. You had to have left him. What he’d do? Take all your money? Fuck your best friend? Leave you with the kids?”

With my mouth running, I hardly notice Pear lower her head, eyes drifting to the cement floor at our feet.

“You don’t deserve that story, either.” She turns back to the bench she’s working on, her hand moving faster over the spindle. Her attention aggressive and hyper-focused.

Fuck! I turn back toward the broken dresser but pause, staring blindly down at the open drawer and the tools I spread on the top surface.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter.

The distinct sound of sandpapering continues.

“I said, I’m sorry,” I say louder and turn to face Pear.

She stills but doesn’t remove her hand from the spindle or draw her eyes away from the bench.

“That’s what happened to me. My story. She broke us financially. Then fucked my best friend in our bed. Left me and the kids for Kenny. Fucking Kenny.” I turn back toward the dresser and place both my hands on the top. Spreading my arms, I lean on the piece as if I need support. “I’m over it. But sometimes, it still stings.”

I pause. “She wanted more than I could give her, but even if I gave her everything, I don’t think she’d ever have been happy.” Quietly, I add, “With me.”

Silence filters between us. I close my eyes. Fucking Kenny. Sometimes it hurt more that I’d lost my best friend than my wife.

“He said I was getting fat.”

I spin so fast my hip hits the dresser and it wobbles. With a firm hand slapping the top, the furniture stills, but I keep my hand on the surface, bracing myself once more.

“He said what?” I see fire. Flames are certain to be flashing in my eyes. Smoke steaming out my ears.

Pear glances away from me, gaze fixated on something across the room. “I’d married him during a vulnerable time in my life.”

She shrugs and peers back at me. “My worth isn’t measured by my dress size, but he was no longer happy with me. How I looked. How I dressed. None of that mattered, though, compared to how he used me, lied to me, much like your ex-wife. He had a gambling problem. Put up our house as collateral without telling me. Loans and liens on almost everything we’d owned. We owed three years’ worth of back taxes. It was a financial shitshow.”

Her eyes turn cloudy. “He was interested in staying married, only he was no longer interested in me.” Rapidly blinking away the storm, she adds. “And I didn’t want or need what he offered. I’m worth more than that.”

“Damn right you are.”

With our eyes locked on one another, my body vibrates with anger. The desire to close the distance between us and pull her to my chest is powerfully strong. I want to draw her close to me, and yet, at the same time, I’m afraid. Afraid she’ll break me. Afraid I’ll break her.

“We’re quite a pair,” I softly remark.

“A pair,” she whispers.

When I can no longer take the intensity of those blue eyes staring at me, I turn back to the dresser, and at first, mindlessly begin working on repairing the dovetail joints. The soft sound of sandpaper schussing over wood fills my ears, giving me strange comfort. Working to repair the dresser actually brings me joy.

Pear and I seem to have come to an understanding.

Sometimes quiet moments matter more.