Eduardo's Arc

Chapter 11 of 60

He cut the soft shingles out and set them on the grass. He climbed down for the new ones and sat on the bottom rung of the ladder to catch his breath. That was when the memory came. Kiersten at the kitchen table, crying, asking him why. He had not answered her then. He answered her now, alone in the yard, because there was no one left to lie to. He remembered the first time she cried in front of him. She had found a receipt in his coat. She asked him plain. He told her she was searching his pockets like a jailer. He remembered the shape of her face when he said it. She had stopped crying and gone quiet. He had counted the quiet as a win. He remembered the second time and the third. There were too many to count after that. She would sit at the table and put her hands flat on the wood and ask him to stop hurting her. She begged him. She used that word. Please stop. He would tell her she was making it about herself. He would tell her she was dramatic. He would tell her she was the reason he drank. Each time she asked him to fix it, he turned the knife and handed it back to her. He put his palms on his knees. He said it out loud in the yard. "She asked me to stop. I didn't stop." His voice sounded small against the side of the house. He said it again. "She begged me. I heard her. I chose not to." He had told himself for years that he had not understood. That she had not been clear. That he had been young. None of it was true. She had been clear every time. He had understood every time. He had chosen the fight because the fight let him keep his shape. If he had listened, he would have had to change. He had not wanted to change more than he had wanted her. He sat with it. He did not push it away and he did not soften it. He let it be what it was. He had hurt a woman who loved him, on purpose, again and again, because it was easier than looking at himself. That was the truth. He owned it in the yard, with no one to hear. He stood up. He picked up the new shingles and climbed the ladder. His hands were steady. The regret sat in his chest like a stone, but the stone was his to carry now. He fit the first shingle into the gap and drove the nail clean. He would not send her another letter. He would not go to the school again. He would carry what he had done and keep his hands working. That was the only apology left to him. He drove the second nail.