“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem like you should be on your own.”
He turns his back to her, staring at his reflection in the window. His face is strangely bloated; the bags under his eyes are more swollen than usual. He looks old all of a sudden, like the bell curve of his life is in permanent decline. To admit this to Molly would only invite her cheerful, biblical brand of consolation, and he’s not in the mood to hear it right now.
“I’m worried about you, Kyung. I’ve never seen you like this.”
“I asked you to leave.”
“But maybe—maybe you need someone to talk to?”
He doesn’t know why she thinks this is her responsibility. They’ve never been anything more than casual acquaintances, distantly positioned on each other’s periphery. He hooks his fingers through a handle, opening and closing a drawer because it’s there. The inside is stuffed full with windowed envelopes—bills, he assumes, that Gillian wanted somewhere out of sight. The thick, haphazard stack makes him nervous. He wonders how long they’ve been there and how many of them have actually been paid.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she offers brightly.
“God, you’re awful.”
He says these words with none of the anxious planning that usually precedes his attempts to talk to her. And although her face registers a sort of wounded surprise, he recognizes something familiar just below the surface. He looks her up and down, not making any effort to be discreet this time. The flash of pink he saw in the car was her dress, a bright pink sundress with a sweater tied around her shoulders. For modesty, he assumes. The neckline is lower than usual, inches below the pendant that he rarely sees her without. He reaches for the flash of diamonds, brushing her bare skin as he lifts the crucifix to examine it.
“What happened to you?” he asks.
She swats him away and the pendant falls to her chest. “What happened to me? What happened to you? Why are you acting like this?”
There, he thinks. There’s the girl he remembers from so long ago. Insolent, angry. Not afraid to raise her voice. This is the girl who threw a chalkboard eraser at their English teacher for picking on her, the one who always smelled like smoke and patchouli and sex.
“I liked you better in high school,” he says. “You were more honest back then.”
“Honest? What am I not being honest about?”
“About who you really are.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”
“It means I think you’re a fake. You and everyone else from that church, but you in particular.”
Molly’s mouth is open, but she doesn’t make a sound. She just backs away and braces herself against the edge of the sink. She looks like she’s about to cry, which would disappoint him. The old Molly would never cry.
“Maybe that’s your opinion,” she says. “But you haven’t spent enough time with us to really know.”
He opens the refrigerator and rummages through its contents until he finds a six-pack of beer, hidden behind the gallon jugs of milk and juice.
“You’re having beer now? It’s not even ten o’clock yet.”
He stares at her over the rim as he downs half a can. “It’s been a long day.”
Molly looks away, embarrassed or uncomfortable—probably both. “So where did everyone go?”
“To the Cape.”
“And they just left you here?”
“Maybe I wanted to be left.”
She nods. “I’ll get going too, then. There’s food in the cooler if you want it, but it has to be refrigerated soon.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
She blinks at him. “What are you talking about?”
“What happened to you? What brought on your … conversion?” He makes no effort to soften his ridicule as the word slides from his tongue. He wants to see the old Molly, the real one. He wants the truth that only she can tell.
“You’re too closed off to God to hear anything I say.”
“Try me.”
He stares at Molly in profile, at the way her long black hair falls over her shoulders, appearing almost red in the sun. He’s tempted to push a strand away from her face, but her expression is too pretty to disturb. She’s looking out the window into the backyard, her eyes framed by a thick sweep of lashes. There’s a pale brown mole on her cheek—he’s never stood close enough to notice it before—and another at the base of her collarbone.
“I wasn’t a good person when I was younger. I think everyone in school probably knew that. I had problems, lots of them, and after a certain point, it was hard to forgive myself for some of the things I’d done. But I was lucky—the people I met at college, my friends, they helped me realize that it wasn’t my forgiveness I needed to seek.”
“That sounds like your husband talking, not you.”
“It’s the truth.”
“But what good is that? It’s not like you had a conversation with God. It’s not like you said ‘I’m sorry’ and heard him accept.”
“No, but I have faith that he heard me.”