Real Bad Things(59)

She was kidding, of course. Even so, during her nightly prayers, she asked for forgiveness.

Her move to the guest room had made her bold in thought. Even hopeful for the future. Maybe the cops would close the case for lack of evidence. If they had any, they’d have arrested Jane by now. Teenage confessions were so unreliable. Everyone knew that. Maybe they’d all finally be free. Maybe at the end of election day, Georgia Lee would fold her pharmacy smock and place it on the desk along with her store keys. She would pray it all into existence.

She made a mental note to review online job postings to prepare her body and mind for the experience of leaving a place she’d stayed too long. She had enough in savings to get by for a short while. Her experience in store management and on the city council would matter to someone. Maybe not to employers in Maud Bottoms, but certainly someone in Maud Proper had a spot on their staff for a woman of her aptitude. Or Fayetteville. Maybe over in Fort Smith. Little Rock? Too far? Maybe for the old Georgia Lee. The new one . . .

Two weeks left. Two more weeks until she was free from the election and expectations and putting on a happy face for the world. She was done with all that. Done with Maud Bottoms. Every day, she imagined what other, non-Rusty-related changes she would make once released from the confines of her life in public service and with Warren’s case finally behind them. It’d been foolish of her to try to improve Maud Bottoms. They hated the housing developments. They accused her of gentrification. They laughed at her. Maybe they were right. Maybe all she’d done was try to reclaim her spot on the top of the social ladder, but in Maud Bottoms this time. Perhaps that had been unfair of her to attempt to change Maud Bottoms instead of herself. She would consider it.

She dressed as usual, ate her cereal at the kitchen table, and drank her coffee. The boys had left early that morning for a game in a neighboring town, leaving the house blessedly quiet, with the exception of Rusty as he walked back and forth in their bedroom upstairs.

She braced herself when his footsteps sounded down the stairs and toward the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he said, cheerful, though forced. She echoed his words back to him and tried to appear her usual self. He wore his around-the-house pants, a ball cap, and a T-shirt with holes and a hint of body odor.

He poured a cup of coffee and sipped it at the kitchen sink. Birdsong drifted inside from the open window. Annoyingly chipper, like him. “Lovely day outside.”

She mumbled agreement. Before long, he placed his cup on the counter and his hands on either side of the sink.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?”

Cruel to ask for elaboration on his meaning, but she did. Crueler still to watch him agonize over what he’d done wrong when the fault belonged to her.

She coughed. “I still feel terrible,” she said. It was true. Her soul felt absolutely terrible. On the verge of complete collapse. “I think I’ll be staying in the guest bedroom awhile longer. I don’t want to infect you or the boys, and I don’t want to wake you up coughing. Or tossing and turning. I know you have work to do.” The hurt in his eyes at her jab showed. She didn’t just feel terrible. She was terrible.

“You ain’t gonna infect—”

“I’m the one who works in a pharmacy.”

He sat down at the table, steepled his hands. She steeled herself.

“You haven’t been to church in a while,” he said.

“I’m busy.”

“I know. I know,” he said. “But maybe—”

“Please don’t tell me that going to church will solve all our problems.” They’d been short with each other for a while. They barely spoke about anything but the weather.

He flinched at her use of our. “It could help.”

When he reached for her hand, she lifted it to her mouth and coughed.

Some other thought percolated, and she braced herself. It was painful to watch him and be in his presence with the memory of what she’d done fresh in her heart.

“Is it true what they said?”

“Who?”

“Let’s Talk About Maud.” He sheepishly glanced at her. “About knowing that girl, Jane Mooney.”

This again. “Yes, I knew her.”

“Is that all?”

She became impatient. “Is that all what?”

“Is that all it is, knowing her?” When she glared and didn’t respond, he added, “Everyone’s talking how . . .” He struggled to say the words. “How maybe.” He cleared his throat. “Were you more than friends?”

Prior to her recent revelation, Georgia Lee might have kept her mouth shut. Now, defensiveness overcame her. “What if we were?”

His mouth opened wide in surprise. He yanked his cap off his head and ran his hands through his hair. “So it’s true.”

She couldn’t, wouldn’t deny it. “What does it matter?”

“It matters ’cause you never told me.”

She cracked her neck and fought the indignation that grew within her. “What reason would I have to tell you about other relationships? Have you told me about all the girls you dated in high school? I recall you bragging with your buddies about being quite the ladies’ man back then.”

“This is different.”

She examined her nails. About on par with how she felt. Wretched. “How is this different?”