Page 96 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
Caitlin
I grip the screwdriver tightly, working the screws out of the hinges of the cabinet door. Sweat beads at my temples as I focus on the task, far too aware of the man working at my side. Adam removes the doors of the other set of cabinets, his movements methodical and precise. We’ve fallen into an easy rhythm in the time we’ve been working on my grandmother’s house. Ever since that first conversation about Millie, we’ve been careful to keep things light and friendly.
“Last one,” I say as the final screw comes loose and the cabinet door detaches in my hands. I set it carefully against the wall with the others. The kitchen looks strange with all the cabinet doors removed, like a face without eyebrows.
“Good timing,” Adam says, as the last door from his cabinets comes free. He adds it to the stack with mine. “These need to be sanded before we paint them.”
I nod, wiping my hands on my already filthy jeans. The air feels thick with more than just dust, heavy with all the things we’ve started to say but haven’t finished. I’ve been turning his words from that first conversation over in my mind, examining them from every angle, but there are things that still bother me.
“Water break?” Adam suggests, his voice carefully neutral.
“Sure.”
He hands me a bottle from the small cooler we brought, and I take a long drink, watching him over the rim. His hair is ruffled, a streak of dust across one cheek. He looks different now than he did in Mount Pella, or even in Colorado. He’s letting his hair grow out and his beard grow in, but it’s not just his physical appearance. There’s a steadiness to him now that wasn’t there before.
“I want to continue our conversation from the other day,” I say abruptly, my heart thumping against my ribs. “About Millie.”
Apprehension flickers across his face, but he nods. “Okay.”
I take another sip of water, buying myself time to gather my thoughts. “You told me that you felt responsible for Millie’s happiness. That it was drilled into you since you were a kid.” I set my water bottle down on the counter, needing my hands free for this. “I need to understand what that meant in practice. Because so much of what happened doesn’t make sense to me.”
Adam leans against the counter, his eyes steady on mine. “Ask me anything. I’ll tell you the truth.”
“That night,” I begin, and my voice catches. I clear my throat and try again. “That night I came home from my shift at the diner, and Millie was at our apartment. You were cooking dinner for her. You cooked for her and didn’t even think to save any for me.” The hurt still feels fresh, even now. “I felt like I was interrupting a date. In our home.”
His face falls, regret etching deep lines around his mouth. “I’m so sorry about that night, Caitlin. There’s no excuse for it.”
“I don’t want apologies. I want to understand why it happened.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Rhonda would call me, sometimes several times a day. She’d be frantic because Millie wouldn’t eat or get out of bed. She’d say things like, ‘I don’t know what to do, Adam, she’s wasting away’ or ‘She’s been in her room for three days.’”
I feel my jaw tighten. “And you’d what? Rush over?”
“Not always. Not at first.” He looks down at his hands. “But if I didn’t respond or try to help, my mother would call next. She’d tell me I was letting Eric down, that he’d be ashamed of me. That Millie needed me.”
“So you’d bring her to our apartment for dinner,” I say flatly. “Our space. Our home.”
“Sometimes. Other times I’d take her out somewhere, or go to her house and cook there.” He meets my eyes, his expression pained. “I know it was inappropriate, Caitlin. I know it was far too intimate. If our situations had been reversed, if you’d been doing that with another man, I would have been jealous and hurt and angry.”
Something bitter rises in my throat. “How often did this happen?”
He hesitates, and I can tell he’s weighing whether to be completely honest.
“Don’t sugarcoat it,” I warn him. “I want the truth.”
“Several times a week,” he admits, his voice quiet. “Sometimes more.”
The words land like a blow. “Several times a week,” I repeat, my voice hollow. “You were certainly taking better care of Millie than you were of me.”
“I know.” He looks miserable, and I feel no sympathy for him.
“Did you ever tell her no? Did you ever tell Rhonda to take her to a doctor? Did you ever suggest therapy?”
“I tried a few times, but they’d dismiss it. Say it wasn’t that serious, that she just needed to see a friendly face.” His shoulders slump. “I should have tried harder. I should have held firm.”
I walk to the window, needing some distance. The first shoots of spring are pushing up through the overgrown mess in the garden outside.
“Do you know what I felt that night, Adam? When I walked into our apartment and found Millie there?” I don’t turn to look at him. “I felt like I didn’t belong. Like I was the guest, and she was the one who belonged with you. I felt like I was intruding in my own home.”
