Page 32 of This Vicious Hunger
“Well, what, then?” I demand, anger flaring in me like a lit wick. “I washungry. So I decided to eat. What’s your problem?”
People are looking at us now, but I won’t back down. I don’t care what the LeVands would have said about this kind of drama at the dinner table; at least they never called me fat to my face. And anyway, if anything I’ve lost weight since starting at St. Elianto. Whether it’s all the walking or the lack of sleep, I don’t know.
Leo rests his palms on the table and lets out a breath as he tries to calm me—and himself—down.
“Lord,” he groans. “I’m sorry. I was trying to say… if youwere in the—in the…” He rolls his shoulders back as if he’s trying to pull courage out of the ground. A quick glance to make sure nobody is still listening to us. “In the family way,” he says, barely above a whisper.
I stop dead, my fork halfway to my mouth. The laugh that breaks from me is raucous, absolutely inappropriate for the size of the dining hall, and now people are staring again, but I can’t help it.
“Oh, Leo, no,” I heave. “Absolutely not on this earth, no. You have no idea how far up the wrong tree you’re barking.”
Colour comes back into Leo’s cheeks in a flush so pink he looks unwell. He sips at his ice water and makes a few shapes with his mouth before another apology comes out.
“What would make you think that?” I ask.
“Well, I… I don’t know. You didn’t talk about your husband much anyway, but youneverspeak of him now. You’ve been so—unlike your normal self. You hardly say anything over dinner, and you’re eating more and you snap at me when I try to make sure you’re all right. And…”
“And what?” I prompt, amusement draped over my annoyance. He’s such a busybody. A haunted look shivers over his face, his lips thinning. It’s as if he thinks I’m lying—and he’safraid.
“I remember when Clara… She and I were trying for a baby—when she—did I tell you that? I feel like that’s why it all started. She was so frustrated by it all. We were doing this thing together to try to grow our lives, our family, but it wasn’t working. And that’s when she started getting distant and angry, sick all the time on and off, just locked in her thoughts in this whole other world sometimes when I’d try to talk to her. And you… it’s so similar. It frightens me.”
“Oh, Leo.” I reach across the table and grab his hand despitemyself. “I’m not Clara. You’ve got to stop with this. It’s—” I want to saystrange, but I hold it back. Leo’s already been hurt enough by Clara leaving him like she did. “It’s not appropriate.”
“It’s just…” He sighs. His expression flickers from troubled to a softer display; it might be remorse, or perhaps… guilt?
“You really loved her, didn’t you?” I say. “You’re grieving her, and you’re grieving the life you had together—or the possibility of it, you know, with a baby.”
“I never really wanted that.” Leo doesn’t look at me as he says this. As if he’s embarrassed. “I only wanted what Clara wanted. I wanted her to be happy.”
I pause at the echoing pang in my chest as another realisation slams into me with such force it leaves me breathless. Is it possible Leo wanted Clara to be happy like I wanted Aurelio to be happy? Because it was easier and simpler and less painful that way? If he was happy, then I didn’t have to address the rest of it, the way Iwasn’thappy, and could never be in his arms. I lower my voice. “It’s normal to want your spouse to be happy, Leo. But… you don’t talk about her like other husbands talk about their wives. And—forgive me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am, because it’s the same way I’ve always felt—I don’t think youlovedher like other men love their wives either.” I lean in, lowering my voice further. “That’s why you feel guilty about what happened to her. Isn’t it? Like you believe if you’d been a better husband, if you’d given her what she wanted, she wouldn’t have left…? And I’m not just talking about a baby.”
Leo is stunned for a moment. There, in his conflicted expression, is the real divide between Leo and his wife; his stare, devoid of any hint of anger, or disgust even, that I might dare to suggest he didn’t desire his wife, is instead filled withpanic. He doesn’t even acknowledge the confession of my own feelings.
Leo is the same as me, like calling to like, and maybe he doesn’t truly know it but I can see it. Leo loved Clara—but was hein lovewith her?
“Clara was my best friend,” Leo says shakily. Sharply. “And this isn’t about me.” He glances around awkwardly, refusing to meet my gaze. I give his hand another squeeze, daring him to look at me and see that I know how it feels, that I understand more than he knows. But he keeps his eyes trained on the window instead before adding, “I’m not making this up, Thora. You can tell me I’m blinded by Clara all you want—but… you smell different.”
I freeze. “What do you mean I smell different?”
“It’s getting stronger. I thought, with Clara—maybe it was a baby. I’ve read that it happens—”
“Leo, what do you mean that I smell different?” I yank my hand back from his.
“You smell exactly like Clara did before she left. She used to visit the garden when she couldn’t sleep. She came back—perfumed.” Leo finally meets my gaze, and it scares me. This mention of Clara’s perfume… I can’t explain it, except that it feels like she’s here right now, between us. A ghost.
I can’t do this. I can’t be here. Not with him—or her. I can’t talk about the garden, or picture Clara in it. Hysteria builds inside me, a mixture of horror and alarm that rings like a bell.
“I told you, you shouldn’t compare me to your wife, Leo,” I say, forcing ice into my tone to hide the panic. He’s lying about the smell—he has to be. Otherwise why is he only mentioning itnow? He’s trying to distract me. Or worse, he thinks deflecting his own feelings with flirtation is the way forward. “If you’re noticing the way I smell, sir, frankly, that is nobody’s problem but your own.”
“I’m only saying there’s something—”
“I know what you’re saying,” I cut him off. “You’re obviously trying to make me feel sorry for you. You need a new wife to hide behind, and you think this is how you get one? There’s no other explanation for this ridiculousness. Maybe you should admit what you’re doing to yourself and talk to me like an adult. Maybe then I’d feel differently about a conversation about my goddamnperfume.”
I shove my plate away and get to my feet, my appetite suddenly gone. Instead I feel a wave of dizziness, the kind of nausea that comes with having your feet on unsteady ground and a long drop below. I swallow hard, bile burning the back of my throat. If all I am to Leo is a marriage prospect so he can hide how he truly feels, or some way to forget about Clara—and if he thinks scaring me is the way to woo me—then he has another think coming.
“Thora,” Leo argues. “Come on. You know I’m not trying to—”
“No, Leo. I think it’s high time I remind you that we arefriends. You are not my husband, nor is it in any way appropriate for you to act like you are. We have dinner together here because I’m willing to push the boundaries more than most, but if you can’t behave yourself, then maybe we shouldn’t.”
