If only he could ask Joanna what he should do. But he also knew that hearing about Bronwyn made her uncomfortable—it was a sensitive spot when they first started dating, and he feared raising it again. Soon after they’d become serious, they’d revealed their past relationships. Joanna had had several: some boyfriends in high school, casual flings in college, someone with whom she was serious about shortly after she graduated. It had surprised Joanna when Charles admitted he’d only dated Bronwyn; he’d gone on dates after that, but nothing had panned out. Her eyes had widened. A look of intimidation had crossed her face. “Was she the one who got away?” she’d teased, trying to sound playful. Charles hadn’t offered up a satisfying explanation—everything sounded like a halfhearted excuse. It wasn’t really that no one could measure up to Bronwyn. It was more that he wasn’t sure he deserved anyone after she broke it off.
But it was more than just wanting to spare Joanna’s feelings that held him back from telling her. The longer he and Joanna were together as a married couple, the more she made him uneasy. He sensed something was a little off in her; she was a little restless. There was something on the tip of her tongue she wanted to say but never did, and this hesitancy had multiplied since they’d moved out of the city. Several possibilities floated through his mind—was she resentful of family obligations, especially since they lived much closer to Roderick now? Did she hate living in the suburbs altogether? When Charles had walked her through their current house, she’d passed through the rooms silently, woodenly. Then when she was done, she gave him a yearning, pleading look. “What?” Charles had snapped.
“Nothing,” she answered quickly, opening a cabinet and peering inside.
“You don’t like it.”
“No, I do. It’s … nice.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing.”
Was there something wrong with the suburbs? Joanna had lived here before, though; she’d known what to expect. She said she wanted to move out here with him. Why was she making him feel so wrong-footed, as if he’d forced her into it?
The looks came so often these days. He’d gotten one when he rearranged some of his books she’d unpacked on the bookshelf. He’d gotten another one when he corrected her on the correct pronunciation of Kandahar and another when he came home with window curtains he’d ordered from Horchow. Hadn’t she wanted window coverings? Hadn’t she said she hated how people could look in and see everything they were doing? She’d looked at the curtains and said, in a baffling, crushed voice, “I’ve never even heard of Horchow.” Charles had no idea how he was supposed to respond. In apology?
Those looks got to him in ways he couldn’t articulate. And then not long ago, it had clicked: they were the same exasperated, disappointed looks his father used to give him. Joanna raised the same questions in him, too. What am I doing wrong? What do you want from me? Perhaps that was why Charles’s father liked her. Perhaps he saw himself in this girl. It both drew Charles to Joanna and repelled him from her at times.
If he told her about the Bronwyn conundrum, he might also get that disappointed look. How dare you? How could you? More than that, Charles wasn’t sure if he could get into the nuts and bolts of it with Joanna. He wasn’t sure he could tell her what he’d said to Scott and why Bronwyn had broken up with him. If he did, Joanna might think differently about him altogether.
It began to pour as he boarded the westbound SEPTA train. He watched the rain drip down the windows, flooding the streets. At his station, he bought a bouquet from the flower seller by Starbucks and sprinted to his car. When he got home, he sat in the driveway, windshield wipers squeaking, and took in his own house’s brick facade—the newly growing grass, the red flag on their mailbox. The house was on a hill, and in the rearview mirror he could see the rest of the development splayed out in the valley. Lights were on in the windows. TVs flickered. A woman stood at a kitchen sink, rinsing dishes. There was the perfectly circular cul-de-sac, the flat, well-sodded dog park, the softly lit sign at the development’s entrance. Down the hill to the left was Spirit, the street of unsold homes. There no lights were on. Every window was bare.
Somewhere beyond the trees was Swithin. Charles hadn’t been there in a while, but he knew that right in the middle of the grand lobby was a bronzed relief of Charles’s great-grandfather’s face. The first time Charles visited the school was when he was about four years old, not long after his parents adopted Scott. His mother let him walk up to the plaque and run his hands over the mold of his grandfather’s nose, the sharp etchings of his eyebrows, the cross-hatchings of his mustache.
“This school wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for great-grandpa,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “He made all this possible. And you’re part of this story, too. You have his name.”
“What about Scott?” Charles asked. “He’s not part of the story, is he? He’s not one of us.”
His mother looked conflicted. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said after a moment.