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"I felt like I failed her by keeping everything locked up so tightly," he says, staring at the way Sunday's lightly freckled hand looks intertwined with his. "And I don't want to do that with you. I have no idea where things are going with us, but I want to make sure they go in the right direction. I'm very fond of you, Sunday," he adds shyly. He hopes this isn't too much to say over breakfast.
Sunday's gentle smile widens and her eyes dance with little sparks of happiness. "I'm very fond of you too, Henry," she says. "I think you're a wonderful man, and I want you to feel as though you don'thaveto keep things locked up when you're with me. I'm very much an open book, and while you aren't required to be that way with me, I want you to understand that you certainly can be. I think men can cry and share and hope and want things, and I'm not the kind of woman who thinks less of a man when he just needs to vent or share his emotions." She continues to hold his hand as she looks into his eyes from across the table. "I don't think one person in the relationship needs to be the strong and silent type. At this point in my life, I see a relationship as two humans who want to be friends, lovers, and partners. I hope you see things that way too."
Banks feels his heart constrict at these words; he's never before felt that hecouldjust be himself and not the one who does all the protecting, the listening, and the heavy lifting. The idea of being someone's partner and friend andnotbeing the reason for their unhappiness or lack of fulfillment is refreshing. He wants to say all these things, but breakfast magically appears, the many plates that Sunday ordered covering their table top as she lets go of his hand and laughs, watching the pile of food grow between them.
"I hope you're hungry, little lady," Banks says, putting a napkin on his lap as Sunday does the same. She lifts and moves plates, reorganizing the table until everything is the way she wants it. Without asking, she cuts the omelette in half and separates the French toast, divvying up everything and moving it all onto plates for them both.
"Thank you," Banks says as she hands him a plate. "And yes," he adds, studiously looking at his hashbrowns as he salts them. "I do see things the same way that you do." He hopes it isn't too late to agree with her on this, that he hasn't sat here in silence for too long without chiming in, but when he sets the salt on the table and looks at Sunday, she's smiling back at him.
"Good," she says, winking at him. "Then as long as you keep letting me order all the food, I think this is going to be a beautiful relationship."
Chapter13
Ruby
Ruby is feeling...blah. The trip to France has left her questioning everything, and she isn't sure how to move forward with regards to Etienne and Julien. She doesn't even know anymore if she wants closure, if she wants to find a way for everyone to coexist, or if she merely wants to complete some mission that she only imagines her late husband would want her to do.
"Morning," Dexter says, coming into the kitchen where Ruby is standing in front of the huge picture window that looks out onto the beach and the water. She's holding a mug of rapidly cooling coffee in her hands and feeling pensive.
"Good morning." Ruby's smile is wan and she knows she must look as tired as she feels. Traveling does this to her--wrings her dry and leaves her feeling like a fish flopping on dry land. She usually spends a day feeling this way and then her body rights itself, relaunches its internal clock, and she's back in business.
"Sleep well?" Dexter asks, walking over to the coffee maker and taking a hefty white mug from the open shelving to pour himself a cup. He looks entirely at home in Ruby's kitchen, and she watches him as he moves to the fridge in his navy blue gym shorts and white t-shirt, hair still damp from a shower. He pauses and turns to her with a raised eyebrow as if to ask for permission to retrieve the cream from the refrigerator.
Ruby nods. "A better hostess would have had everything laid out for you. Sorry." She gives him an apologetic half-smile. "I woke up early and was feeling a bit morose after our failure of a trip."
Dexter sips his coffee and leans back against the counter, crossing his bare feet at the ankles as he watches her. "Not a total failure," he says, taking his first sip of coffee and swallowing. "I think it furthers the narrative--at least for me, which might be entirely selfish. I know you have your own internal narrative," he says, sweeping a hand through the air as he holds the coffee mug in his other hand. "And the things you need to find and sort out are entirely different than the things that fuel my fire."
"What about that trip fueled your fire?"
"Seeing you interact with the woman who was essentially the third person in your marriage," he says without preamble.
Ruby exhales loudly. "Wow. We're not holding back this morning."
"Do you need me to?" Dexter watches her over the rim of his mug. "I get my best reactions from you when I just speak freely. Couching my words and questions to soften the blow is a thing of the past. You and I have been talking for too long now to dance around our meanings."
"Fair." Ruby pauses and turns back to the window, squinting out into the bright morning light. "I forget sometimes that Etienne was a part of my marriage, to be perfectly honest. I see her now as involved solely as Julien's mother. Is that weird? She is nothing to me but a vessel that delivered a half-sibling to my daughters."
Dexter weighs this information before speaking. "Could be a self-protective mechanism. Maybe you've processed through it all and decided what matters most to you is to have your girls know their brother."
"Or maybe I just can't live with the thought of Etienne and Jack sharing true intimacies. Not just sex, but the kinds of things you share with a lover: your hopes, fears, and joy. I can't live in a world where he woke up with me on Christmas morning and wanted to be with her. I don't want to know anything about how he held her through the night as a storm raged outside their bedroom window, and I never want to see photographs of him and Julien building sandcastles together in Corsica or riding rollercoasters together at Disneyland Paris. I hate that I even know that Jack took him there."
Ruby sets her coffee down on the kitchen table and then turns back to the window to hide the emotions she's feeling from Dexter. With her back to him, she folds both arms across her stomach and clenches her face to match the feeling in her chest. She wills herself not to cry.
"It's a lot," Dexter says sympathetically. "And no part of me blames you for not wanting to envision all of that."
"It might be healthier if I truly looked at her and imagined it all though. If I saw her as the beautiful woman she is and recognized that she was the object of Jack's affection."
"And you don't think you were as well? Can't a man feel that strongly about two women at the same time?"
Ruby releases her arms, relaxes her face, and forces her breath to calm her before she turns back to Dexter. "No, I don't think he can. The feelings you have for one person are far too intense to double them and divide them between two people equally. I think it's either you're all in with one person, or you're, like, ninety percent in on one person and ten percent of you feels...I don't know what--residual love? Guilt?--for the other person. I think I was the ten percent," she says, trying not to feel bitter as she does.
"Hmm." Dexter drinks his coffee and offers nothing more.
Ruby throws her hands in the air and makes a noise that's a cross between frustration and anger. "I'm just fed up with the fact that Jack always got what he wanted--even in the end," she says. "He got to do whatever he felt like, live how he wanted, be the leader of the free world, and then die when he felt the time was right without ever apologizing to anyone. I want him to be sorry, and he never will be. It infuriates me." She clamps her mouth shut in shock. "I can't believe I just said that."
"You're allowed to feel your feelings, Ruby," Dexter says, taking a long swill of his coffee and setting the mug on the counter. "What would you say to walking and talking today? Maybe on the beach? It's gorgeous out." Dexter lifts his chin at the picture window. "And sometimes the words flow more easily when you're walking next to someone rather than staring at them face-to-face."
They retreat to their rooms and meet on the back porch five minutes later wearing baseball caps, flip-flops, and sunglasses. Dexter has his phone in hand, ready to record.
