Page 60 of Catch a Kiwi
I said, trying to keep my voice steady and hearing how it wasn’t, “Let’s back up. I’m sorry about your father. I’m sorry about the party, and that you’ve been hurt.”
“I haven’t—” Roman started, but I put up a hand.
“Sure you have,” I told him. “You didn’t have a dad, your mom never put you first in her life, and your first wife, at least, seems to have used you as her personal bankroll and dumped you as soon as she didn’t need it anymore. You’ve had to do everything by yourself, all anybody wants to do is take what you’ve got, it’s damaged you, and I’m sorry. But I’m not any kind of answer, because I’m damaged, too. I’m all alone on this island of mine, and so are you. There’s no loneliness like being with somebody who doesn’t want all of you, and I’m not doing it again. Not for a week. Not for a day. I’d rather live in a tent.” I stood up. “And I won’t be going to your party with you. Find another woman. You could pay her. You’re good at that. Let’s go back. We need to put your rugs down.”
Roman was up, too. “Hang on. I didn’t say I didn’t want you. I never said anything like that. I said I didn’t want to get married. I’ve known you about three weeks. Bloodyhell.”
“You can want anything you like,” I said. “It’s your life, and I’m not judging it. But I’m done being somebody’s sweet kitten. Somebody’s understanding resting place at home. Somebody’s doll on a shelf, waiting patiently for when he needs her enough to take her down, until the doll isn’t as pretty anymore and he finds another favorite. I’ve lived that, and I’ve watched it happen to plenty of other women. I’m thirty years old, my doll days are numbered, and besides—I don’t have to be that and I never did. I just didn’t realize it. I got sidetracked, but that’s over. I have skills, and I have pride. Delilah and I need to go.” Which was when I realized it. “Oh, shoot. The tailbone. My job. I need to give at least a couple days’ notice. We’ll leave Monday morning. Sorry, that makes my speech much less dramatic.” I tried to laugh.
He wasn’t having any. “You need to leave to do what? To live in a tent? Because I offered my flat and my bed at nocharge to either of you, and just saying it crossed the line?” He was simmering with frustration, his muscular arms were folded, and he looked like nothing so much as an angry bull. Maybe I should’ve been intimidated, but I wasn’t.
“Maybe,” I said. “The difference is, it’ll be my tent. If I could walk out now, I would. I can’t, so I’ll say—please take me back to your house so I can finish the job you asked me to do.”
25
MONEY AND POWER
Summer
If this had been a movie, the next scene would have been Delilah and me driving away with a jaunty soundtrack playing. Possibly in a convertible. Here in my real life, Roman drove the half-hour back to the house with his jaw set, and I sat beside him and felt bad. Finally, when we were getting close, I said, hearing how stiff I sounded, “Obviously, I went overboard there. You’ve been incredibly kind to Delilah and me. If part of that was how I look—well, pretty privilege is real, I’m ashamed to have it, and blaming you for wanting to help me because of it is just ungrateful. Nothing about the spot I’m in now was your fault, and I could have turned you down more gracefully. It’s just—” I shut my mouth on my justification, because qualified apologies weren’t really apologies at all.
“You shared your opinion,” Roman said, pulling into the drive. “Don’t back off now. That’s a weak look.” After which he climbed out of the car and stalked toward the house, while I scrambled out behind him with the kind of dignity you’dexpect from a sweaty, muddy, embarrassed-by-her-frankness woman. In other words, none.
“Wait,” I said, and he turned at the door, no softness in his face. “I need to make sure we’re clear before we get in there with Delilah. Let’s move the rugs back, and then I’ll …”
“No,” Roman said.
“No?No?”I was over my contrition.
“Take a shower first,” he said.
“I don’t need to—” I began.
He said, “I don’t want mud on my carpets. Go take a shower.” And opened the door.
Delilah, I saw as soon as we were through the kitchen, was still on her stomach on the couch with an icepack on her tailbone. She was also asleep.
“Shower,” Roman said, and stalked off toward the back of the house. Toward, presumably, his own bathroom. I vacillated a minute, and then I went into the bedroom, stripped off my sweaty, muddy clothes, thought about how many times I’d been muddy here, threw on my robe, gathered up the laundry, and went to stuff it in the washing machine. Holding the moral high ground was all very well until you were down to a few outfits and they were all dirty.
When I passed by the living room, Delilah said, “Wha-?” She tried to sit up, yelped, and lay down again.
“Hey,” I said, stopping beside her and putting a hand on her back. “Still hurts a lot?”
“Only when I laugh,” she said. “Or cough. Or move.”
The tent wasn’t going to work. Just getting into and out of a sleeping bag would hurt her. But I’d burned my bridges. My stupid pride, getting in the way. Why couldn’t I just have said, “No,” and had a mature conversation, negotiated an exit plan? Why had I panicked like the walls were closing in?
Wait. Motel. Duh. We’d do that. We’d just…
“Four weeks to heal,” Matiu Te Mana had told us. “It’ll hurt much less after a week or two, though.” Delilah wouldn’t be able to work for at least two weeks, and she sure didn’t look able to camp. Weeks in a motel, on one waitressing salary? And in a week, I needed to make the next payment on the ute.
Oh, no. The ute.HadI been just totally wrong? Had I …
Delilah said, “Your standing there like a statue is freaking me out. What?”
“Oh,” I said. “Uh … nothing. I’ll just—I need to take a shower.” You got good ideas in the shower, right? I needed some good ideas.
The good news was—it worked. Well, I got an idea, anyway. Of course, I couldn’t pursue it immediately, since Roman had clearly taken about a five-minute shower and was switching out Delilah’s ice pack when I came out. Which didn’t make me feel bad much at all.
