To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Was I Worth the Wait?

"The Love Letter" by Carl Spitzweg (1846), stolen 1989 - value unknown

Chapter Thirty-Seven

I closed my eyes. I tried to keep my voice steady, but my words bled into a plea through my own closing throat.

"Just tell me it wasn't a scheme or a trick. Tell me it wasn't because of who I am, or who you thought I was."

He was quiet, and I opened my eyes.

He was staring at me with an unreadable expression, as if examining every inch, every freckle, every curve. I felt the paranoia and doubt cackle in victory—then his answer was said with a conviction actors strive for, silencing the crowing chorus.

"Never."

I stared. I wanted to believe him. I really did, but doubt was heavy on a tongue that'd licked too many wounds. Doubt was bitter. Doubt liked to bite back.

"Simon—"

"It wasn't," he denied, vehement. "Never."

It was so forceful, so desperate, so true, that it trembled the stained glass of this holy place. There were streaks of panic and confusion mottling the sureness of his stance, flickers of upset showing, and it rattled me to silence. For once, Simon wasn't planted steady.

No, he was asking me to believe him. He needed me to believe him.

I nodded. I folded; I wrapped those promises around my doubts in hopes the embrace would choke them. And I clung with taut fingers to those slippery hopes, terrified they'd dissipate. Or worse, prove to be false gods in the sanctuary I'd stashed them in. God, I felt nauseous at the grays in his colors. I was sick to my bones because I'd caused those horrid hues. I wanted to erase them.

I knew he'd never given me a reason to doubt what he offered me... but I wished I could've mapped the wounds time had clawed on my skin. I wished I could've elaborated how bombs had dented the same land his clover now yearned to cover. I wished I could show him all the places I'd buried myself for her, for him, for them.

There was blood in the soil. And yet, his wild thyme was creeping up, hoping to blanket those pockmarks with a bandage of blooms, offering stitches of roots and vines to hold me together.

Poppies grow in battlefields. Why can't I?

I felt as if I couldn't bear to fill my lungs with air. I choked on words instead. "I'm sorry for interrupting. What was it you wanted to tell me?"

Simon puffed a breath, blinking. "Oh." He relaxed. "Well, after tonight, Riverwide will begin wrapping up our assistance here. The museum's security has come a long way. We'll be moving to other jobs. It won't be for another few weeks, but... soon. It will be soon."

I nodded slowly, eyes still on his. "I see."

"I thought you should know."

Why?

The answer was in his gaze. The offer was in his throat. My own was in my twitching fingers, the side of my tongue, the base of my body. I nodded. He was stiff, watching, waiting, and I...

I stepped to the side, and brushed past him on my way to the door.

"Simon?" I asked when I reached it.

He'd turned to watch me, the offer still in his hands, even as I left him behind. He was lost, and alone, and my ivy-choked heart knew he wasn't sure which choice I'd made. Did I know?

His voice was quiet. "Yes?"

"I need you to know I was wrong."

Simon's brow dipped. He etched a frown on those elegant edges of his, and I almost choked on regret over the part I'd played in causing it.