Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [122]
“The mountain of outfits by the register is taller than I am. That means I’m done,” I announced when Molly walked into the dressing room. She didn’t answer me, and her face looked like it had been cast in concrete.
I regretted thinking this would be a pleasant distraction for Molly. But before I said anything, her expression cracked a bit, and I spotted a twinge of a smile. I looked her over. Something seemed curiously skewed. “Isn’t that one of the tops I tried on?”
“Yes, so what do you think?” She straightened the shoulders on the white sleeveless smocked shirt she wore, then she slowly turned around.
“Oh, you didn’t,” I said, Theresa-like, with attitude, and cracked up.
“Oh, yes I did,” she said, and her laugh filled the dressing room.
She’d turned the fake baby bump around so that it rested right above her fanny. We laughed all the way to the register where I paid for everything in cash.
Molly wanted to stop in the shoe store, and I welcomed the chance to sit.
“I wonder if it's possible to have a shoe addiction,” I mused as I ogled Christian Louboutin pumps and Stuart Weitzman flats. “Why do I love shoes? Is it something Freudian?”
“People think making love starts in the bedroom, but it really doesn’t. It starts in the kitchen,” said Molly, ever-so-casually, as she walked around in a pair of knee-high natural suede boots while she held a pair of black vintage leather ones.
“When did we start talking about this? And are you supposed to be that loud when you’re being so freaky?”
“I heard ‘love’ and ‘Freud.’ Made an assumption. Oops.” She sat next to me and held out her feet so I could pull off the boots.
“The kitchen? Really?” I didn’t know if I might have treaded on sacred ground. But Molly and I had traveled so far, maybe we found new boundaries to cross.
She alternately grunted and yanked the other pair of boots on her feet. “I don’t mean location. Well, maybe. But Devin and I realized if we couldn’t be friends and enjoy one another's company in the kitchen, then why would we think the bedroom's going to work? I think too many couples try to start a relationship in the bedroom, then get to the kitchen and realize they don’t have anything to say to one another. That's all I meant.”
No, Molly, that's everything.
While I waited for Carl that evening, I bombarded God with prayer. Stalker prayer. I even called Rebecca with one of those “unspoken” prayer requests. Loops of “what if” and “maybe” careened around my brain. I asked God to give me serenity. I didn’t know what or how to pray, but I trusted God knew.
I ordered Chinese for dinner so we wouldn’t have to go out in public. I even set the dining room table, with plates you couldn’t throw away and silverware, not plastic ware. The take-out boxes decorated the table like little gifts. Fragrant presents of ginger, peppercorns, and garlic.
When I saw the headlights of Carl's convertible through the silk taffeta drapes in the dining room, I pushed aside the uneasiness that threatened to come between us and sat in the living room to wait for him. He opened the door, and fearsome pain and sadness walked in with him and left their footprints on every feature of his face.
I raised my face to him. He leaned in my direction, but looked over my shoulder as I kissed his cheek. “Welcome home,” I said, and tried to decipher the worry etched in his forehead.
“Thanks. It was a long ride,” he said and draped his suit jacket on the winged-back chair, unknotted and pulled off his tie, then folded it in half, and set it on top of his jacket. “What's for dinner?”
“I ordered Chinese. Everything's in the dining room.”
“Great. I’m going to wash my hands, throw some water on my face,” he informed me as he headed to our bedroom.
Whatever distracted him rendered me invisible. He didn’t look at me; he looked through me. I filled two glasses with water, set them down by our plates,