One afternoon, Evie left new boots by the door. Another week, a heavy coat hung there too.
“I don’t need charity,” I said.
“Then call it household maintenance. I don’t like muddy floors.”
When I said I could buy my own coat, she only asked, “Can you?”
***
At our local diner, every waitress knew Evie. I hated that place because people loved her and questioned me.
One afternoon, she stirred sugar into her tea and said, “You get quiet when people are kind to me. Why?”
I looked up.
“I don’t need charity.”
“You start tapping your fingers, like you’re counting who trusts me and who would be disappointed.”
I forced a laugh. “That’s a lot to get from a cup of tea.”
She touched the sleeve of my new coat. “You look ashamed when I notice what you need.”
“I’m not ashamed.”
“Damon.”
I hated when she said my name like that. Soft, but firm enough to stop me.
“I’m fine.”
I looked away first.
“I’m not ashamed.”
Evie never chased a confession. She just left the door open and waited to see if I had the courage to walk through.
I never did.
One night, I found her sitting on the bottom stair with one hand pressed against the wall.
“Evie?”
She looked up, annoyed that I had caught her. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sitting in the dark.”
I found her sitting on the bottom stair.
“I was resting.”
“On the stairs?”
That made her sigh.
I helped her up, and for one brief second, she leaned her weight into me before pulling away.
In the kitchen, I filled the kettle.
“You don’t have to fuss,” she said.
“I’m making tea.”
“I was resting.”
“Then at least let the water boil first.”
I glanced down at the kettle, embarrassed.
She laughed softly, and for a few minutes, the room felt almost normal. Like I was a husband. Like she wasn’t just a roof I was standing under.
Then my phone buzzed with a text from Jesse.
“How’s the retirement plan?”
***NEXT PAGE
