“Oh,” says Coop, “we had ’em put it in the garage. We thought since it was empty in there, and the house was gonna be pretty jacked up with all the work—”
“The garage is perfect, thank you.” I leave before he can say anything else, and hurry out to the garage, ignoring his startled look and Theo’s relentless, studied observation of my face.
The garage is detached from the main part of the house. It’s a newer structure, built within the last few decades to accommodate three cars. I enter through the side door and hit the light switch, and there it is, alone on the cement pad, a big pine crate about five feet tall and eight feet long, stamped with the words “Fragile” and “Handle with Care” on the sides.
I walk over to it and rest my shaking hands on the top edge.
Then I haul myself on top of it, lie down on my back, and close my eyes.
I’ll call the company later to find out what the hell happened, but I need a moment to compose my thoughts. I need a moment to reconnect with these relics from my past.
It was a clerical error. Someone made a mistake, that’s all. The schedules were switched, the hotel found other art they wanted to hang on their walls, there’s a reasonable explanation for all of it. These coincidences don’t mean anything, Megan. You’re not thinking straight.
Nothing has anything to do with Theo.
I sense him there before I even open my eyes. He’s a presence in the doorway, silent, but palpable nonetheless.
“Don’t mind me. I’m just having a little nap.”
Footsteps slowly approach. I turn my head and meet Theo’s eyes. He’s a foot above me, his expression bemused. He glances at the words on the side of the crate, then his dark eyes slash back to mine. His brows lift in inquiry.
I sigh and hide from his penetrating gaze by staring at the exposed wood beams on the ceiling. “It’s stuff from my old house. I wasn’t expecting it yet.” My chuckle is low in my throat, full of dark humor. “The list of things I wasn’t expecting is growing by leaps and bounds lately.”
After a moment, Theo strokes a finger along the edge of the crate. From my peripheral vision, I can see that his expression has turned thoughtful. He wants to know what’s inside.
I’m not going to tell him what’s inside.
I’m being ridiculously superstitious, and I hate myself for it, but I can’t handle any more weird coincidences. If I tell him the crate is full of oil paintings and he sends me a chipper text that reads, “Hey, I’m a painter too!” I’ll have a heart attack and die on the spot.
“It’s…um. Pottery.”
Silence. Without moving my head, I slide my eyes sideways and look at Theo.
With exaggerated slowness, he mouths the word Liar.
I huff out a breath, sit up, cross my legs beneath me, and drag my hands through my hair. Propping my elbows on my knees, I drop my head into my hands and close my eyes again.
“Okay. Here’s the truth: it’s stuff I don’t want to talk about. It’s stuff that hurts me to think about, and it’s gonna hurt even worse to look at.” I swallow. My voice comes out thick. “It’s my husband’s things.”
I hear him softly exhale. Then I hear the scratching noise of pen on paper, then a tearing sound. Then Theo gently nudges my elbow. I crack open an eye and see a small piece of notebook paper resting on my knee, with the words I’m sorry written on it.
“You don’t have to be sorry. Not your circus. Not your monkeys. Don’t worry about it.”
He takes back the paper, scribbles something else on it, and sets it back on my knee. It reads, Can I get you anything?
When I look at him, he’s visibly worried, his dark brows drawn together, his full lips turned down.
“A lobotomy? A nice case of amnesia? Some brainwashing, perhaps?”
He knows what I mean, but he shakes his head sharply in disagreement. I get a new note, this one scribbled furiously fast.
If the good memories outweigh the bad,
you shouldn’t want to forget the past.
I read it, twice, then crush the piece of paper in my fist. Blinking back tears, I whisper, “I don’t want to forget him. I want to forget who I am without him.”
Then—impossibly, horribly—I’m crying.
Ugly crying, because I’m not one of those lucky women who can weep into a handkerchief and make it look dainty. When I cry, it involves unattractive noises and great gasps of air like I’m drowning. It involves full-body shaking and snot.
A big, warm hand presses against the space between my shoulder blades. A steady, reassuring pressure, it stays until my tears slow and I’m glowing with embarrassment for breaking down in front of him. Then Theo takes his hand back, and I wipe my eyes with my fingertips and my nose with my sleeve.