Judgment

27

They sat at the kitchen table, the door closed.

Duncan had betrayed no emotion at first, not anger or upset. He nodded a lot. But he avoided her eyes. “I’m glad you told me,” he said a few times, as if her belated candor was the main thing.

“Look, I know what I did,” she said. “And all the clichés are true — it didn’t mean anything, all that. And they’re pointless, because it isn’t even up to me to say what it meant. I’m a horrible person, Dunc. I did something horrible; you have every right to hate me.”

He was looking off into the middle distance, almost contemplative.

“Say something. Yell at me. I deserve it. I’ve got it coming.”

“That’s not who we are.”

“Not who we are?” she echoed.

“You want a big blowout? Like... a cleansing storm? That’s not how it works, not with us. Or I should say, not with me.”

But she could see him fighting to control himself. She thought of the yoga nostrum about one-nostril breathing. It was as if he was trying to detach himself from his body, to float free. With exaggerated casualness, it seemed to her, he went to the sink and filled his glass with water, turned back around, took a sip. His hand was shaking slightly. The imperfect exertion of control. “I’m glad you told me.”

She wiped away tears with her hand. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“It’s a lot to process, okay?” He breathed slowly, blinked a few times.

“I understand.”

He lifted his chin but still looked away from her. “Which means... I can’t be with you right now.”

“Will you look at me, Duncan? Please?”

But he couldn’t. “I can’t be under the same roof as you.”

Realizing, she whispered, “Please don’t leave, Duncan. I mean, I need you. You know that. We need you.”

“These things take time.” His words had a styptic, almost clinical edge.

A little louder, she said, “Please don’t do it. Don’t move out.”

“Oh, I’m not moving out.” Finally his injured eyes settled on hers, like the red dot of a weapon’s laser sight. “You are.”