Page 49 of Cain
I shrug, helpless. “You never talked about Seattle. You didn’t mention friends, or family—no one from before. It was like your past was a closed book, and I didn’t know how to read between the lines. Twenty-two years, and nothing to show for it? I told myself it made sense…that maybe you were starting over. But deep down, I thought you were running away.”
“I was,” she breathes.
“I know. But I…fucked up, thinking…”
“I was pulling a Marion Crane?” There’s a hint of teasing in her voice, like she wants to lighten the moment.
“Am I Norman Bates in this story?” I wrinkle my nose, letting her lead us away from the unpleasant for a moment, but I know we’ll have to go back.
She laughs.
Again.
My heart warms.
I want to hold her. I want to kiss her. I want to make love to her.
But mostly, I want her to be happy.
“Speaking of mothers”— she gives me a long, assessing look—“yours called me.”
I shoot her a look of mock exasperation. “Motheris nothing like Mrs. Bates.”
She chuckles, then sobers. “She told me she was so sorry for what happened.”
“When was this?”
Mom never told me, but I’m not surprised. Christmas was difficult for them. Paula was a brat, behaving like she was fourteen instead of twenty-five. We all felt like we failed in making her a responsible adult.
“Christmas. She wanted to meet me.”
I nod. Wait.
“I wasn’t ready,” she says, her voice soft. “I couldn’t face people. Couldn’t handle kindness. Or pity. Or being seen.”
I cup her cheek, I can’t help it. I want to,need totouch her, comfort her,andmyself.
She leans into my palm, just briefly—nuzzling into the touch for a nanosecond before pulling away. It’s not rejection. It’srestraint. She’s not pushing me out. She’s silently telling me, “This is all I can take right now.”
“But I’m better,” she adds. “Not whole. Not fixed. But…I’m not hiding anymore.”
“I can see that.”
She glances at me, and a warmth flickers in her eyes.
I extend my hand, palm up—offering, not asking. I don’t move. I wait.
She hesitates, just for ananosecond, then reaches for me.
We meet in the middle, fingers finding each other like they remember how. Our fingers tangle, and in that gesture, we begin to mend.
“I thought about this a hundred times,” I murmur. “What I’d say. What I’d do. But it never looked like this.”
She tilts her head. “Like what?”
“Like peace. Like the sound of you breathing next to me being enough.”
She doesn’t smile. But she leans in.
