Chương 3 - Một Tuần Trước Lễ Cưới

“Tessa.”

She stared at the mess.

Then said, “Oh.”

I reached for the letters.

She reached too.

“I can clean it.”

“Don’t touch them.”

“I said I can clean it.”

She grabbed the edge of the carved plate.

I tried to stop her.

The plate slid.

A bottle of cleaning solvent tipped.

I stepped backward into the spilled ink and lost my footing.

I went down hard.

The corner of the wooden plate caught the back of my hand.

Pain shot up my arm.

When I looked down, blood was already running between my fingers.

Evan moved.

So did Tessa.

She got to him first.

“Jesus, she grabbed me.”

There was a red mark around her wrist where I had tried to stop her from touching the plate.

Evan took her arm.

“Are you hurt?”

I sat on the floor with blood running down my hand.

For a second, I thought I had imagined the question.

Tessa’s eyes filled with tears.

“I was trying to help and she came at me.”

I pushed myself up using the edge of the table.

“She destroyed my father’s letters.”

“It was an accident,” Evan said.

“She picked up the ink after I told her not to.”

“Because she was trying to fix the programs.”

“With what? A paint roller?”

“It’s called a brayer,” I said automatically.

Nobody heard me.

Tessa was crying now.

“I said I was sorry.”

I wrapped a clean rag around my hand.

Evan looked at the blood.

Then at Tessa.

Then back at me.

“Apologize to her.”

I honestly thought I was going to throw up.

“What?”

“You grabbed her.”

“She destroyed my dad’s letters.”

“It was an accident.”

“She wouldn’t stop touching things after I told her to leave.”

“You scared her.”

I looked at Tessa.

She looked scared.

But underneath it, I saw something else.

She had gotten her answer.

She had pushed.

I had reacted.

And Evan had chosen.

Again.

I said, “Get out.”

Evan frowned.

“Claire.”

“Both of you.”

Tessa whispered, “I really didn’t mean—”

“Get out.”

This time my voice cracked so hard that she actually stopped.

Evan led her to the door.

Of course he did.

He came back twenty minutes later alone.

I was at the worktable, blotting red ink out of one of Dad’s letters with cotton swabs.

My hand was wrapped in gauze from the first-aid kit.

Evan stood behind me.

“You should get that looked at.”

I didn’t answer.

He looked at the letters.

“I’m sorry about those.”

I kept working.

He walked over to my father’s framed photograph on the shelf.

For a long time he didn’t say anything.

Then he sighed.

“Daniel protected you too much.”

My hand stopped.

He kept going.

“You know that?”

I slowly turned around.

He nodded toward the ruined letters.

“You act like everything connected to him is untouchable. Tessa made a mistake and you acted like she set the building on fire.”

I stared at him.

“You told me to apologize while I was bleeding.”

“Because you put your hands on her.”

“To stop her from destroying something.”

“She didn’t know.”

“I told her.”

He looked tired.

Like I was exhausting him.

“Your dad would not recognize the way you’re behaving right now.”

I set down the cotton swab.

“Stop talking about my father.”

“I’m trying to get through to you.”

“No.”

I stood.

“You’re trying to use a dead man to convince me that being hurt makes me unreasonable.”

“That is not what I’m doing.”

“I’m calling a lawyer.”

He went quiet.

I had said divorce the day before in anger.

This time I didn’t feel angry.

I felt clear.

“I’m serious.”

He stared at me.

“Claire.”

“I’m done.”

He gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

“You always say that when you’re angry.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’ve left before.”

Once.

Three years earlier, while my father was in the hospital after major surgery, Tessa had gotten arrested for drunk driving.

Evan left me in the surgical waiting room because she “had nobody else.”

Dad came out of recovery while I was alone.

I ended things with Evan that night.

Nine days later, he showed up at my apartment with an ulcer, a bag of medication and an apology.

I took care of him.

Then I took him back.

I hated that he remembered the lesson differently than I did.

To me, it was proof I had forgiven too much.

To him, it was proof I always would.

“I came back once,” I said.

“You’ll come back again.”

“No.”

His face hardened.

I turned away.

On the table was the small wooden monogram block Dad carved for my eighteenth birthday.

Evan picked it up.

I heard the movement and turned.

“Put that down.”

He looked at the initials.

C.B.

Then at me.

“You keep treating every object in this room like it matters more than our marriage.”

“Put it down.”

“You threaten divorce. You tear up programs. You throw people out.”

“Evan.”

“And then you expect me to just stand here.”

He slammed the block down against the edge of the heavy steel table.

It split straight through the middle.

The sound wasn’t loud.

That almost made it worse.

One half hit the floor.

The other stayed in his hand.

Neither of us moved.

He stared at what he had done.

His face changed immediately.

“Claire—”