What's Mine and Yours(30)

“Papi caught a snake!” Diane said. “He picked it up with a stick and his bare hands!”

“He was so brave!” Margarita swooned.

“Oh my,” Lacey said because she didn’t want to stamp out their joy. “What kind of snake?”

“A copperhead,” Noelle supplied, and they rolled into the house, the girls going on about how he’d taken them to a food truck after. Among them, they had devoured eighteen tacos: potato and chorizo, beans, eggs, cactus.

“Cactus?” Lacey May asked, playing along.

“Cactus!” they shouted, shedding their outer layers in a heap for her to wash. They were in a better mood than usual, as if they’d forgotten they were angry with her for reasons they never named. They argued about who would get the shower first before the hot water ran out, and Lacey carried the clothes down to the basement.

The downstairs belonged to the girls. They’d brightened it up with pink armchairs and a rainbow rug to make up for the meager light that came through the window. There were bunk beds for Diane and Margarita, a pullout for Noelle, a TV, the washing machine. Lacey May started a load and went upstairs, where Noelle, unsurprisingly, had claimed the shower. Diane and Margarita were down to their underwear, watching cartoons beneath a blanket on the couch. Even after all those tacos, they were sharing a bowl of cereal.

“What are you two doing? Don’t let Hank catch you out here half-naked.”

Lacey May was ordering the girls to go and put on some pants when she saw the bundle of wildflowers, tied up with twine, on the coffee table.

“They’re from Papi,” Margarita said. “He sent them for you. Sorry we forgot.”

“He took us to pick them—” Diane began, but Lacey didn’t have to hear where he’d taken them. White and purple aster grew all along the trail that led to the quarry, the lake where she had taken him when they were kids, where Robbie had nearly drowned. They could have been the same flowers that were growing all those years ago, their skinny, gorgeous buds.

Lacey muttered that she needed to run to the store and pick up something for dinner, and she left before the girls could ask her any questions. She drove in the direction of Valentine Road, trying to remember the name of the motel where Robbie had said he was staying.



Robbie answered the door in his undershirt and jeans, a bottle of beer in his hand. His shirt was thin, and she could see his skin right through it. Lacey May looked at him in a way so that he would understand. He locked the door, drew the blinds. She sat on the edge of the bed, unable to say a thing, and Robbie kneeled in front of her, waiting. She kissed him first. They kissed for a long time, as if they were trying to relearn the taste of one another: his brand of beer, her cigarettes. They lay back on the bed, and Robbie unbuttoned his jeans, made plain what he wanted. It surprised her this would be the thing he craved after so long, but she was fine to give it to him. It was all about Robbie for a while, his pleasure and her seeing to it, which somehow felt right, after everything. He’d suffered. He’d gone away. He gave little sighs, knotted his fingers in her hair.

When it was her turn, she hollered and writhed, as if she didn’t want him to make her come, as if she didn’t deserve it. She let herself rise and crest on the wave of feelings Robbie drew out of her, and soon she was crying. Robbie rushed to hold her, but she didn’t want to be held, she wanted to be fucked, and she said so, and he did, and there was no more crying.

After, he wrapped his arms around her. She was still in her blouse, the long skirt she had worn to meet the realtor. Her hair was heavy with sweat. She smelled. Robbie sank his finger into her belly button, an old habit.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and Robbie spared her the pain of saying for what. He kissed her.

“I thought that was how you’d welcome me home.”

“We don’t have a home anymore.”

“Sure we do,” Robbie said, picking up the bottle he’d set down on the soiled carpet.

“You got another?” Lacey went to the miniature refrigerator and fished out a bottle. She wanted to ask Robbie how many other women there had been besides her in the time since he’d been out, but she knew it wasn’t fair. She wanted to hear zero. She wanted to hear no one. She slammed the cap off the beer with her palm, took a long drink.

“I saw somebody about selling the house today.”

“Now why’d you do that?” Robbie said. His voice was light and lilting, as if they were playing a game. It was that effort he put into making everything seem all right, funny even.

“Look at where you’re living, Robbie. It’s only our house on paper. And it’ll get more complicated once we get divorced.”

“What do you mean divorced?” Robbie sat up in bed. The thing about his humor, his ease, was that once Robbie lost it, he went wild. “You came in here, and you asked me to fuck you, and you’re still thinking about becoming Hank’s wife?”

“I’m confused.”

“Let me clear things up for you.” Robbie patted the spot on the bed beside him. He was all gooseflesh and dark hair, his long limbs. He was beautiful naked, his shoulders broad, a new scar running the length of his ribs. “Come here.”

“We can’t fix all our problems in bed.”

“What else is there to say? Didn’t we just say it all with our bodies? The way we touched each other?”