Page 3 of Palingenesis

A tall, lanky man with nimble fingers and all the poise of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed lawyer.

The person I’m supposed to be madly in love with.

At some point, I was. I know that I was. His charm was something else. The ease in how he carried his thin frame, like it didn’t matter that he couldn’t lift anything heavier than his laptop, made him sexy. The confidence—the way he regaled his tales with an edge in his eyes, commanded every room he stepped into, and especially in bed—had me falling from my tower like he wasn’t the one that ripped me down by my hair.

But as he descends the porch steps, lips moving in a way he knows I can’t read, I see nothing but disdain staring back. Disgust at the old truck I refused to sell, the disheveled hair on my head, and the way my hands move.

When he finally crosses the yard, stopping close enough to steal the space in front of me, he looks up at me with a purse to his lips and a coldness to his gaze.

And then he taps his ear.

Rolling my eyes, I huff before I can stop it.

It looks like an attitude but deep down, another piece of me shrivels up as I reach into my pocket and fish the small case loose. It’s not much bigger than Henry’s AirPods, though the buds inside are severely different. Longer, to extend farther into the ear canal, and equipped with enough power to amplify even the quietest of sounds.

They ache the moment I shove them in, the sudden rush of stimulation triggering a pain that shoots up both sides of my head.

“You should have started there.”

I blink at the irritating grate of his voice, the transition from near silence to sudden noise takes a minute for me to adjust. Like putting spit-slicked contacts into dry eyes before you’re awake enough to rub the sleep away. It burns. Hurts. Supplies a discomfort that not everyone would be willing to deal with, including me.

“I’m excited,” I mumble, as if his demeaning tone requires a defense. I know that it doesn’t, and yet … “I forgot.”

The lie rolls too easily off my tongue.

I had every intention of dealing with Marge sans hearing aids for so many reasons my housemate can’t even begin to comprehend.

I’ve tried to explain it. He refuses to understand a single word.

But that’s why we’re here–in a new town that I chose, in the hopes that getting away from normal will aid in adjusting Henry’s perspective. So we can get back to the way we were when we first met.

The chic, charismatic, do-gooder and his creative, hard of hearing, charity case.

Gods, I wish he hadn’t chose this.

I never should have given him the ultimatum of coming with me or leaving, and he never should have chosen to move. I still don’t understand why he did.

He had an opportunity to pick his side piece over me and stupidly, I thought his decision to come here would make a difference.

Judging by the smack of his teeth and turning on his heels, none of that managed to sink in during his several-hour-long flight. The one that wasn’t supposed to drop him off in the same state as me until tonight, giving me a moment to exist for myself.

Sighing, my shoulders slumping, I follow him like the dog that I am up the short sidewalk to the leaning porch and into the house. Creaking of the door announces our entrance, and I add it to my mental to-do list before Henry can throw a fit about it.

The scent is what hits me first, musk with a hint of smoke that scrunches my brows, followed by the bitter-sweet air of cookies. They’re not one in the same, but two very distinct smells from different events.

Marge rushes us before I can take in the place, her smile too big as she ushers us toward the bar that separates the kitchen from the living area.

“Now, I do have one more form for you to sign,” she says, her voice smoother than I anticipated for someone who looks–and smells–like she smokes a pack a day. “And a flyer for y’all to look at. We have a very special festival coming up and it’s tradition for everyone to attend.” Her smile wavers at Henry’s aggravated sigh, but that doesn’t stop her from placing the orange paper in my outstretched hand. “Spring is Firebird season for Bearcreek and it’s a hoot to celebrate with all the pretty colors just before summer kicks in. All the kids go nuts for it.”

“We don’t have any kids,” Henry states evenly, ignoring the rest of her spiel to walk around the bar and open the oven. “Did you bake cookies?”

He’s not bothering to look at her, so she turns her smile on me with a reassuring grip on my flyer-holding hand. “Yes! Another tradition around here. New homes get new cookies. It’s a family recipe, too.” She winks at me, her smile too warm not to return. “A treat as old as time.”

Odd choice of description for some chocolate chip cookies, but I don’t get to ruminate on it long before she’s handing me the second page from the counter. This one is plain black text on white paper with an official letterhead, and as much as Henry has advised against doing so, I sign it without reading it.

“What’s that?” he snaps as soon as I hand it to her, my signature already on the dotted line.

“Oh, it’s just an affidavit,” she answers sweetly as she tucks it into her bag and snaps it closed.