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He appears to accept this as agreement, which it really was not—Lucie doesn’t get tokeepmy husband just because I need a place to stay.
He gestures toward the spare bedroom and I cross the hall to peek in. I’ve never seen either of the bedrooms in Beck’s house—it’s oddly thrilling even if there’s nothing in there but a bare mattress laying on the dusty floor and a light bulb suspended eerily by a cord from the ceiling. “This looks like the room you’d hold a captive in,” I tell him.
His lips twitch. “I’ll have to keep that in mind for the future.”
I picture it before I can stop myself—Beck holding someone down on that mattress—and electricity surges through my blood. It’s not the first time Beck has had that effect on me and I remind myself—as I have before—that it’s probably the effect he has on everyone. I bet even innocent little Lucie fantasizes about Beck holding her down once in a while.
“I’ve gotta get in the shower,” he says, rising from the chair. “I’m already running late.”
A tiny echo of disappointment pings in my stomach. Even if Beck and I mostly argue, I sort of wanted him here. “You’re already going back to work? You just got home.”
He gets this dirty almost-smile on his face. “I wouldn’t call what I was doing this morningwork. I’ll try to get back here tonight, but the bar doesn’t close until two.”
It’s kind of him. There’s this weird cavity in my chest anyway. Is it envy? Loneliness? I’m not sure. I fought my way back from the dead, but I still don’t have a life. “Don’t worry about it. I love staying alone in creepy, isolated houses straight out of a horror movie.”
He tilts his head. “You’re the evil queen, remember? This place is made for you.”
“Nothing wrong with being the evil queen. Most men appreciate a little bad with their good.”
I smile to myself. Calebdefinitelyappreciates a little bad with his good.
I just have to remind him.
* * *
After Beck leaves,I drive to the grocery store, having discovered that his warning about there not being “much” in the fridge was the vastest of understatements. It’s not as if ketchup and packets of soy sauce can be turned into a light but nutritious meal.
I climb from the car, doing my best to ignore the pale, jittery guy leaning against the building across the street. If he’s not a dealer himself, he’d know where to get something, and my eyes close as I imagine that first hit. How it would wipe everything away, make anything seem possible. Just once more I want the sensation of floating above it all, of being set free. I want it so badly that my hands clutch the shopping cart handle, knuckles bleached white with tension as I walk into the store.
I go to the produce section, but everything I see looks like it was discarded already by a better store. Lucie probably shops at some fancy fucking place where all the food is organic and has cute handwritten placards. She’s probably a good cook and will have a nice meal waiting for Caleb when he comes home, desperate to prove she’d make a better wife than I did.
It’ll probably be fairly easy to prove.
I throw a few things in the cart and pay quickly before I hustle to my car because any moment now, my negative thoughts could stage a coup. I could find myself walking over to the druggie across the street before I’ve even thought it through. God knows it’s happened before.
Caleb is the reason I won’t. Because I earned this second chance. I suffered for it, and I’m not going to lose him to that stupid girl.
I get in the car and hit Ann’s name on speed dial before I can give it any more thought, though.
“How’s it going there?” Ann’s heavy exhale reeks of concern. “Did you find a meeting?”
I close my eyes and let my head sink against the headrest. I’m really not up for a lecture right now about how meetings are necessary for recovery—a philosophy I’ve never bought into entirely. I don’t need a meeting. I need Caleb back.
“Yeah. There’s one at this church in town.”
I went there, once upon a time. The setting was grim, the coffee was terrible, and I got hit on by two different men old enough to have fathered me.
“How was it?” she asks.
I should feel worse about lying to her but mostly it just makes me tired. “Not really my crowd,” I reply. “What I don’t get is why the coffee sucks at every AA and NA meeting. It’s like someone’s decided we haven’t suffered enough.”
She doesn’t laugh, which means it’s going to be one ofthoseconversations—the kind where she calls me on my shit. “And did you talk to Caleb?”
I swallow. Saying it aloud will make it a little more real, a little harder to pretend it’s not happening. “He’s dating someone. He says it’s serious.”
She does not gasp in response. It’s as if she always expected this turn of events. And why wouldn’t she? Why the hell did I assume Caleb would wait nearly a year for me to return?
I suppose because I’d have waited a year for him.
