Page 54 of Catch a Kiwi
“I also didn’t tell you to drink the whole bottle,”Summer told Delilah. “I said aglass.”
“Too bad,” Delilah said. “I did anyway. I’m going back to watching my movie, if you don’t mind. You guys getting on my case is messing with my butt recovery.”
Summer looked at her, then at me, clearly torn. I didn’t say anything. I was curious, maybe, about what would happen next. I said, “I’ll take this to the kitchen,” and headed off with the tray.
She followed me. Responsibility, probably. I was getting pretty bloody tired of her responsibility.
Summer
When Roman set the tray down on the kitchen counter, I started slotting dishes into the dishwasher and said, trying for control, “I brought her food from the café. I wasn’t sure whenyou’d be here, so I didn’t bring you any, and I’m sorry, but I didn’t have time to make anything before I?—”
He grabbed me. Well, he touched my arm first, but when I turned, his arms went around me. I tensed, thinking,You really think I want to kiss you at this moment?But he didn’t kiss me. He held me and said, “Sorry that happened. Must’ve scared you. Though I reckon she’ll live.”
I had to haul in a breath and fight for composure. It was a good thing he was holding me, because it meant he couldn’t see my face. Also, he was so broad and hard, so solid. So tempting to lean against him, to let him wrap me up and tell me it would all be OK.
Men didn’t hug, though. If I knew anything, it was that. When they held you, it was foreplay. But he still wasn’t trying to kiss me, and therewasall that broadness and hardness and warmth and so forth, and his armsdidfeel good, and he still smelled like rain and trees, so … what can I say. I succumbed. I laid my cheek against his shoulder and admitted, “It was a scary moment, when she fell like that. She was really hurt. I’ve tried …” Another breath, fighting the tears. “I’ve tried to help both of us. I’ve told myself this was the right thing, this year, that we aren’t just …” Another gulp. “Drifting around aimlessly. That this means something. When these things happen, though, I have to wonder … am I just fooling myself?”
“No,” he said, his voice rumbling out of his chest and into mine. “If the other thing hadn’t happened, you wouldn’t have given this a second thought. Be a funny story, that’s all. Bruised her backside and got drunk? That’s a funny story all the way.”
I stepped back. Not because I wanted to, but because I knew I should. “And by the ‘other thing,’ you mean when Delilah was hanging upside-down, unconscious, in the van, and I thought she was dead.” I kept my voice level with aneffort, because that image kept coming back. Like a nightmare where you try and try but you can’t save that person you love most, except that it hadn’t been a dream. It had been real, and I couldn’t lose it.
“Yeh,” he said. “That. There you were, taking her to hospital again. Had to feel bad.”
“And my life keeps getting turned upside down exactly like that,” I said, and tried to laugh. “I’m stable, though. I’ve always been stable. I just don’t know …” My hands were, somehow, in my hair. “What’s happening to me? Why isn’t it working?”
“How are you not stable?” he asked.
“Well, obviously. The trial. My public disgrace. My mom dying. Delilah. The accident. I’m not batting a thousand lately.”
“What? You’re not …”
“Baseball metaphor,” I explained. “I think. I’m not that familiar with baseball.”
“Oh. Did you make those things happen, then?”
“Sure I did. I made the choices.”
“That’s some superpower you’ve got, making your husband a tax cheat. Making your mum die. Let me get another bottle of wine.”
“Oh, because that will make me less hysterical? What if I weep all over you? And I take responsibility for my actions. Tell me you don’t.”
He sighed. Irritating, you’ll admit. “Maybe I want wine. Although Delilah did drink my favorite.”
“Let me take a shower first,” I said, because I wanted to say, “I’ll buy another bottle” again, but knew it would only annoy him more.
“Fine,” he said. “Come outside afterward. I’ll put the fire on.”
I could have dressed up after my leisurely steam shower—where had this technology been all my life?—but it was nine o’clock at night, and this wasn’t a date. It was a glass of wine. I put on my tank top and boxers, added my robe, and headed outside.
“So,” I said, when I’d sat beside him, picked up my wine, and inhaled. Another red, like Delilah’s, spicy and warm and rich and deep. “I’m not going to cry, and I’m not going to tell you my whole sad story, no worries. But I have to ask—did you watch the show?”
“No,” he said.
“Not even the first episode?” I was startled. The show and my marriage to Felipe had defined me for nearly a decade—until the trial had.
“Each morning,” he said, “we are born again. What we do today is what matters most. The Buddha.” He lifted his glass to me and drank. “I judge what I see, and besides—our mistakes help make us who we are.”
“Who said that?” I asked.
