I've convinced him to move the gates again to exclude the white
marble monstrosity up the hill and sell it while the market is on a
white hot streak. This neighborhood is solid gold. The house has been
stripped of as much marble as I could take from it and redone beautifully and we weren't going to sell it but we don't need it
either and really it's a lot of money needlessly tied up when it
doesn't have to be and so if he sold this one and kept the one in Tahoe
then he would be sitting pretty indeed. I came to him with the offers
and he was very surprised and pleased and we chose one and it's all done
and what easy money sometimes.
You're very good at this. I wish you would be my partner formally. In ventures, I mean. I know what he means.
I don't like the business.
I
know, Neamhchiontach. And maybe that's why you're so good at it. You
don't use your heart at all. Just your head. I would have sat on that
house but you like to play it safe and you've done very well and you
will be rewarded.
I don't need to be.
If
it's all the same to you, I'd appreciate a chance to continue to spoil
my favorite sometime-partner when my business flourishes because of her
decisions on my behalf.
Suit yourself. I have to go.
Can you have a nightcap first?
Sure. What do you have?
We can finish the Lagavulin.
There's half a bottle left!
Right. He grins. We'll go over the rest of this paperwork. Let Pyro know you'll be home inside of an hour.
***
It's the opposite of artifice. The habitual routine of taking our places on the couch to go over paperwork because his desk and my little spot in his office always seemed so formal, foreboding even. I fit perfectly there, tucked under his arm while his fingers errantly trace my tattoos as I read over the lists. This contentment seems so bittersweet now without a future.
He kisses the top of my head as I turn a page and I don't know what is habit and what's hopeful. I love you, he whispers and I nod. Love you too, I whisper back automatically, so careful not to weigh it down, watching as it floats up over our heads. Habit over meaning, courtesy over declaration. His heart is probably as cold as stone now, the space in the center where the injuries are filling up with ice, thawing and freezing, expanding and contracting, filling up until eventually the weaker piece will break right off, the remaining piece withering and dying.
He holds his breath until I turn another page to confirm that it's habit and then he pretends it is even as he hoped otherwise and he tries to just enjoy the moments. It's as if we've started over but really we are winding down and I'm trying to throw an old dog a bone here, letting him down as gently as I can. Loch wanted to shoot him in the head, I'd rather put him to sleep. It's more humane. And I always said in the end that it wasn't me who was the monster, even as everyone said I was. It wasn't me. I became the product of my environment, that's all. It couldn't be helped.
As I read he refills my glass. I don't know if he think I'm not paying attention or if he's making a statement. I put the papers down and wait for clarification.
You agreed to help me finish this.
I can't crawl back across the driveway.
So stay.
I can't stay.
You could stay.
I'm not staying.
We are nose to nose and oh my God, I want to stay.
I gotta go, Diabhal.
Wish you wouldn't, Babydoll.
Lagavulin's empty. I knock the bottle over and it spills across the table. A travesty. A waste. He quickly gets up and goes to get a towel.
An escape.
Goodnight, Bridget. The disappointment in his voice is so thick I feel it close around me as I shut the door. I feel like I have narrowly escaped a whole different kind of quicksand. I feel sick from the whiskey and the heat and the big money and the expectation that he is alone because of me and in spite of me and I feel the dark closing in tight like a vise.
