Two weeks before the courthouse wedding, Evie slid a folder across her kitchen table.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A prenuptial agreement, Damon.”
“You’re serious?”
“Lonely doesn’t mean careless.”
She folded her hands on the table. “The house stays mine. My savings stay mine. And if something happens to me, my will speaks for me.”
“A prenuptial agreement.”
“You think I’m after your money, Evie?”
She looked at me over her reading glasses. “I think hunger makes good people do ugly things, honey.”
My face burned. “I’m not hungry anymore. Not like I used to be.”
“No,” she said. “But you still eat like someone might take the plate.”
I nodded and signed it anyway.
Paper was paper, I told myself. Time changed things, and people changed wills.
“You think I’m after your money, Evie?”
***
Everyone called her Evelyn, but she let me call her Evie because it made her feel young.
That was Evie; she left pieces of herself in the room. Most days, I didn’t pick them up.
But I noticed the full pantry. The soft towels. The stacked medicine cupboard. The doctor appointments written on the fridge calendar.
Every appointment caught my attention.
Every new pill bottle made me wonder how much time she had left.
Still, Evie treated me better than I deserved.
Every appointment caught my attention.
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