“I never meant to hurt you like this.”
I believed him.
That was the tragedy.
“I know,” I said. “You just meant to make your own life easier.”
He flinched.
Then he left.
I stood in the kitchen long after the headlights disappeared from the driveway. My whole body shook once he was gone. I had not enjoyed any part of that. That is another thing people misunderstand about boundaries. They imagine the person finally drawing them must feel triumphant and cold. Most of the time she feels sick.
I washed the coffee cups even though only one had been used.
The next morning, Marissa came.
Not at nine. Not at noon. At ten-thirty, the hour respectable women choose when they want a visit to look spontaneous while still allowing time for hair, makeup, and strategy.
She stood on my porch in cream slacks and a silk blouse, holding a white pastry box with a gold ribbon.
“Edith,” she said warmly, as if we had brunch once a week. “I brought croissants from that bakery off Hay Street. May I come in?”
I stepped aside.