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He could feel the angry blood throbbing through the veins in his head and neck. He knew that his eyes were glowing with fury, that he was spraying spittle with each word, that he probably looked feral.
/> That he probably looked like his old man.
But even knowing that, he couldn't stop himself from saying what his father used to shout at him. "Just leave me the fuck alone, will you?"
With remarkable calm, Caroline sidestepped him and left the room.
Then he had no one on whom to direct his rage, so he threw himself down into one of the kitchen chairs, put his head on the table, and sobbed till his throat was raw.
He stayed there until dawn, benumbed by grief, steeped in self-loathing.
When he realized the sun was coming up, he stirred. He toed off his shoes and tiptoed through the house to the bathroom, where he splashed his face with cold water. His shirttail was out, his hair standing on end, he had a full day's growth of beard. He looked like a derelict after a weeklong binge, but he was too weary in body and soul to make repairs.
As he left the bathroom, he looked down the hallway toward the bedroom. The door was ajar, not quite an invitation, but she hadn't barred herself against him, which, after the way he behaved, she'd had every right, practically an obligation, to do.
He went to the door and pushed it open. Its hinges creaked, but that didn't waken her because she was already awake. He sensed she was even though she was facing away from him, lying on her side, her knees pulled up nearly to her chest. She lay on top of the covers, fully dressed except for her shoes. The pads of her toes, perfect dots of flesh, were lined up against the balls of her small feet.
The sight of her caused the bitterness that he had nursed through the night to disintegrate, and all he was left with was emptiness.
He walked to the bed and lay down, close to her, but without touching. He expected her to tell him to get away from her, that she couldn't stand the sight or sound or smell of him. But she didn't. She lay perfectly still, and that silent acceptance of his presence emboldened him to speak.
"I was wrong last night," he said in what, for him, passed as a whisper. Even so, his voice sounded abnormally loud. He tried lowering it another decibel. "When I said there was nothing you could do to help me, I was wrong. There is something."
"What?" Her voice was muffled by the pillow beneath her cheek.
"You're doing it."
"I'm not doing anything."
"Yes you are. You're ... you're being." He moved his head closer to hers, closed his eyes, and pressed his face into her hair.
"Just being?"
"That's enough. Actually, that's a lot."
She turned over until they were face-to-face. She didn't rebuke him for rubbing his face against her hair, which he was afraid she might. Her regard wasn't judgmental. More like tender.
"I'm sorry for flying off the handle." Then he snuffled with disgust. "That's an understatement. I went way beyond that."
"You were upset."
"I was. Am. But nothing excuses the way I acted and the things I said."
"I didn't take them personally."
"Good. They weren't directed at you."
"I know. I understand." Her sweet expression said she did.
It made his throat tight. "Do you think you can forgive me?"
"I saw you at your worst, and I'm still here."
He shook his head sadly. "That wasn't my worst, Caroline. Not by a long shot."
"I'm still here," she repeated softly.
Gazing into her calm, sherry-colored eyes, he felt little cracks forming in his mean ol' heart. It had been toughened early by the loss of his mother, who'd loved him, hardened by his father, who hadn't, then made stony by the man's ceaseless cruelties.
