Page 26 of Cain

My ex got the house.

That she still shared with my ex-buddy.

I’d slept in motels and, sometimes, at work, until I figured out something more permanent.

Sure, it could be worse than where she was staying. At least the long-term places had little kitchenettes to cook in and a laundry room. But still. They were… exposed. And full of men likely going through divorces. Ones who would see someone as pretty as Georgie and might get some ideas.

Even if he wasn’t happy about the divorce, any decent man wanted a woman they once claimed to love to be safe, didn’t they?

Though even my short interaction with Perry told me he wasn’t exactly a nice guy.

But the last thing I wanted to do was bring up her ex.

“What does your ideal apartment, or house, look like?”

“Two very different answers there. I would be happy for any place of my own right now. But an apartment isn’t really somewhere I would stay in an ideal world. I like having a house. A yard. But I’d choose somewhere not too big. I, uh, I lived in a big house and it just felt very… cold.”

I imagined that sensation was amplified by the presence (and absence) of her asshole of a husband.

“And I want it to be really lived-in feeling, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“No formal rooms that no one goes in. Textiles in every room: rugs, curtains, pillows, throw blankets. No matter how much they might ‘collect dust.’ And lots of art. Quirky stuff. Like you’d buy off a wall at a coffee shop or walking around the city. One-of-a-kind.”

She was really dreaming now.

I paused mid-slathering on of the Mod Podge to seal my coaster, to just watch her as she brightened, as color returned to her cheeks.

“And nothing is going to match in the kitchen. Not any of the mugs, which I’d make all unique. Or plates. Or silverware. And I want a massive bright green Dutch oven. And a slow cooker. Oh, and a real coffee pot.”

“Real?”

“I’ve had a single-serve one for a long time. It’s, um, ‘efficient.’”

Perry’s words, then, not hers.

“But, I don’t know, I just love a pot of coffee slowly dripping. Reminds me of simpler times, I guess. Oh, and I’d love a front porch. Or a back one. With a rocking chair.”

It sounded a lot like what I wanted. Something comfortable. A place you could put down roots in. Grow new branches to the family tree.

“Sounds perfect,” I said, meaning it, as I finished sealing my coaster and moved onto the keychain.

“Yeah. And, in a super ideal world, I’d have a studio somewhere. In a converted shed or something.”

“Painting?”

“Pottery.”

“You make pottery?”

“I used to.” Her gaze flicked up, eyes sad. “I miss it. I love working with my hands. I’m not the best painter, but I think that was what was kind of fun about my pottery—it was different.”

“You stopped when you married?”

“Perry wanted a homemaker. And he hated how I used to have clay on my body or clothes.”

“Have you gotten a chance to do it since leaving him?”