Chapter 12: Cinnamon, Rabbit, Fourteen

I woke in the guest suite with my mouth still sore and the sun on the wall.

I lay there and thought about the kitchen.

*It was a mistake. He said it because he was crying. He believed me for one night.*

*In daylight he'll want the paper again.*

I got up, dressed, and went to find my daughter.

She was already at the breakfast table in the kitchen, in her pajamas, sitting on two cushions with a plate of cinnamon toast.

Laurence sat across from her with his sleeves rolled and a cup of coffee he had not touched.

He looked up when I came in.

He did not smile.

His eyes went over my face, and something in them eased.

"There's toast," he said. "Four pieces. Birdie cut it."

"I did the middle," said Birdie, with dignity.

I sat down.

I picked up a piece and held it.

*He's going to be polite about last night. He's going to say we should talk. He'll put a distance on it and call it respect.*

*I'd rather he wasn't kind. I couldn't bear it if he was kind.*

Laurence set his cup down.

"I'm not going to put a distance on it," he said.

I looked up.

"And I'd rather be kind than not," he added, quietly. "If you can bear it."

The toast fell out of my hand onto the plate.

Birdie looked at it, and at me, and kept chewing.

I had not said a word.

I had not moved my mouth.

I said nothing for a while.

Then I thought, very clearly, one word at a time, and I looked straight at him while I did it.

*Cinnamon.*

*Rabbit.*

*Fourteen.*

"Cinnamon, rabbit, fourteen," Laurence said.

He said it automatically, before he could stop himself.

Then he shut his mouth.

The kitchen was silent.

Birdie swung her feet.

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