Page 191 of Where the Snakes Sleep

That would have been convenient, but no, that first month was awful. Camille wouldn’t stop hovering, and I’d snap at him, but then he’d try too hard to not hover and become distant, which led to me accusing him of avoiding me, which led to him pointing out I had asked for space, and I told him there is a difference between space and acting like I have a restraining order, to which he asked me to define the difference.

Therapy helped.

Separate therapists.

That was non-negotiable.

Camille needed somewhere to put twenty-three years of grief that wasn’t me.

I needed somewhere to put Paul, my parents, Alberte, Henri, Camille, murder, France, and the fact that apparently I am capable of falling in love with a man who owns enough venomous snakes to require specialized insurance.

Camille nudges my ankle with his shoe. “You disappeared.”

“Thinking.”

“Oh no,” he murmurs.

“Shut up.”

I look toward the cottage, then say, “I’m glad I stayed.”

The humor leaves his face. “I am glad too.”

“I didn’t stay for you.”

“I know.”

“I have…” I gesture vaguely. “Things here. A life.”

The word feels good.

A life.

Not a hiding place, not somebody else’s house, not a temporary stop between disasters.

Camille reaches across the space between our chairs, his palm faced upward. I put my hand in it and his fingers close loosely around mine. They’re never tight enough that I couldn’t pull away.

“You know,” I say, “my French teacher says I’m improving.”

“She is paid to encourage you.”

“I hate you.”

“Je sais.” I know.

I grin. “Je t’aime.” I love you.

His thumb brushes across my knuckles. “Je t’aime aussi.” I love you too.

This one comes out differently from the first.

I squeeze his hand, then glance toward my abandoned paintbrush. “I should finish that.”

“You should eat first.”

“Bossy, bossy,” I tut.

“You have consumed half a pastry since noon.”