“No one lived here after him? Until me, I mean,” I say, feeling slightly chastised.
“Right. I wanted to fix that freggin’ kitchen for over a year, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then I saw you hauling boxes in here, and you were so fucking cute. I felt so damn guilty about you moving in here with a ruined kitchen that I had to fix it. I had to make it better.” He lifts his sandwich to his mouth, and just before he takes another bite, he adds, “Turned out to be the best decision I’ve ever made.” David gives me a suggestive wink, and I know that the conversation hasn’t pissed him off. I am jumping in.
“Carl has no idea you fixed my kitchen, does he?”
“I ended up telling him about it the night you got sloshed at the poker game. But I just told him I fixed your cupboards. I didn’t tell him about anything else. He wanted to know how we hooked up.”
“Oh.” I finish my sandwich and roll over the long list of questions that are now in my head. When I talk again, I am thankful that the bitterness is gone from my voice. “So, was Lucia the one that bought you the gun and taught you how to shoot?” I ask, hoping to hell he won’t say that it was Anna instead.
“Yes,” he says briskly. I don’t think he wants me to ask any more questions, but I can’t stop myself.
“And was she one of the women that you were referencing the other night? One of the women that became a big part of who you are?”
“Of course,” he says wryly. “You can’t almost kill a man over a woman and walk away from it without your life changing somehow. I told you that’s what all that so-called ape shit stuff was about. I temporarily lost it.” He doesn’t sound angry or even perturbed. He is calm and composed—and somehow dazzling.
“Was the tattoo artist one of them, too? Who was she?”
He hesitates for a few seconds before he offers an answer. “Her name was Jenny, and you already know that she was a junkie.” Wait. It wasn’t Anna who created David’s birds? There was another woman. David lost two different women to death. Even if he doesn’t feel it himself, I feel sad for all three of them.
“How did she die?” I ask quietly, nervous about waking the dead.
“Her dealer went psycho.” David is so straightforward about it. So matter-of-fact. “But, like I said, as a couple, we were over months before it happened.”
“And how is she a part of you now? I mean aside from the obvious. Aside from that little hummingbird on your arm.” I brush the small bird with my fingertips. David stills. The space between us crackles.
“I will never lose myself like she did.” He says it with resignation. And an incredible amount of confidence.
“Oh,” I say. Right then, I make the decision to never bring up Anna Spaight. I will never ask him about her. I don’t want to listen to him tell me about her suicide. I don’t want to know about how she influenced his life. I don’t want to know about all the ways that she shaped him. And I don’t want to know if David loved her. I want to stay ignorant about the whole damn thing. Even though it is too late for that.
“Okay,” I add, dropping my chin to my chest. “I want to take a shower now.”
“Are you freaked out?” he asks as he stands up and picks up our plates.
“A little,” I say, looking up at him. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was judging you in some way by bringing up the whole Lucia thing like I did. I didn’t mean to make a game out of something so serious.” Those are the words I say out loud, but inside I am choking on my own thoughts. On thoughts of David having to witness the deaths of two women who were such important parts of his life.
“I know,” he says as I stand and follow him into the kitchen, “and I don’t ever feel like you are judging me. That’s one of my favorite things about you. You never make me feel different.” His words stop me in my tracks. That’s it. I haven’t really been able to figure out why I am in love with David, but he just said the precise words that my mind has been searching for. I love him because he never makes me feel different.
I turn him around to face me. He touches my face and plants a knowing kiss on my lips. Once again we are two of the same.
In the shower David washes my back with a soapy washcloth. He rubs it around carefully, and I watch the small flecks of excess ink and skin spin around in the eddy and then drop down into the drain. He washes my hair and my body, and before I know it, I am pinned against the shower wall with my legs wrapped around his waist, my mind and body simmering with adulation. With love. His lips grind into mine, and my fingers scatter through his wet hair. His mouth feels cool compared to the hot water, and when his lips leave mine and sink into my neck, I roll my head back against the shower wall. David reaches down to turn off the water and then he sets me down on the mat outside the tub. He dries us both with a towel, peppering me with soft kisses between swipes of the terry cloth.