“Because of this?”
She paused on him for a long time, as if it was the stupidest question he could ask. “No, Charles. Not because of this. We haven’t spoken for a long time.”
The tip of her nose was red. He knew, from years of being with her—standing with her out in the cold weather, talking, kissing, arguing, promising things to each other—that her nose wasn’t red right now because of the cold. It was because she was upset. He was upsetting her. She led an insulated, pleasant life, and here he was, tramping on it, cheapening it.
“I’ll call my boss,” he said wearily. “I’m not going to write the story. It’s a conflict of interest. They’ll send someone else.”
“Okay.” She pushed a greasy hank of hair out of her face. “Are you going to get in trouble for that?”
“It’s fine.” He started back up the hill, trying not to trip.
“I heard about your father,” she called after him.
Charles stopped but didn’t turn. He could just make out the top of his car up the hill. “How?” he asked.
“Laurel? In the office? She sometimes buys the Inquirer at the gas station. I was in the office one day, leafing through a paper, and there was your dad’s picture.”
“Huh.”
“But I try not to use the phone, which is why I didn’t call. Maybe I should have. I try to be … pure about all this, I guess.”
Charles gritted his teeth. If Bronwyn were truly pure about all this, she wouldn’t have read the newspaper at all. Asceticism was just an excuse. She simply wanted nothing to do with him.
There were crackling noises behind him. It sounded as if Bronwyn was shifting her feet in the dirt. “How did it happen?” she asked.
He turned back to her. “Brain aneurysm,” he managed, stiffly. “Hit him from out of nowhere. They tried surgery, but it didn’t work. He died on the table.”
“Oh my.”
“I mean, it would’ve been worse if he’d lived. He had brain damage. He wouldn’t have been able to work or walk or even talk. He signed papers ahead of time, asking not to be kept alive by machines. I don’t begrudge him the decision.”
Bronwyn nodded. “I’m so sorry.”
Charles shrugged. He arched his back and stared at the sky through the emaciated trees. The sun was nowhere to be found. And the air, he noticed, smelled swampy and rotted, like an overflowing septic system.
“And you’re married, too,” she said.
Joanna came to his mind, fuzzy and far away. “Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Nearly a year.”
“Do I know her?”
He shook his head, and she smiled, probably figuring as much. He thought about Joanna. She was probably with her mother right now. He thought about the clumsy argument they’d had about Bronwyn, how he’d pretended she wasn’t on his mind. He’d kept this interview from her, twisting it around so that it felt like she was making the decision that he come here for him. His stomach roiled with shame.
“I lied,” he said.
Bronwyn raised her head. “I’m sorry?”
“I–I knew it was you,” he stammered. “I saw your picture in the brochure. And Mirabelle, the woman who came to talk to our firm, she saw me looking and then started talking you up and from there I couldn’t stop it. We were writing about you, and that was final—and I was going to be the writer. I thought maybe Mirabelle would tell you my name and you’d be okay with it. And at the same time, I didn’t want to call and tell you, for fear you’d say no. I thought if you knew it was me coming, you wouldn’t show up.”
Bronwyn’s jaw trembled. “I might not have.”
There it was, out in the open. He balled up his fists, feeling something inside him break. “Do you hate me that much? Am I really that terrible? Is what I said why you’re doing … this?”
Her forehead furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“I just … I just need you to tell me. I need to know if I changed you, somehow, saying those awful things I did. Then I’ll go.”