"Alice? Yes, though we were only married the once, Emmett and Rosalie do it nearly every time we..." The force of the sudden lack of feeling coming off her is enough to make him look up, bewildered, the pieces of the coffee table gathered together in both hands. She hadn't known? He thinks back across their conversations, surely he'd said it before. But then, he doesn't think of Alice as his wife, he just thinks of her as his Alice. Being married is a fine thing, but it's a detail, and over fifty years ago in any case. It's never changed a thing about them.
He stands slowly as she retreats, and it is a retreat even if it has an intended goal at the end of it. He almost calls her name, asks her to stop, but after a few narrow-eyed moments spent trying to read her—and it's a challenge like this, after she's been so open with him—he lets her go and finishes tidying up the room in record time.
Should've told her the whole truth, he scolds himself as the pieces of the coffee table go into a garbage bin in the garage, to sit there for who knows how long, and he returns and examines the crack in the wall with absent attention. He owes her the whole truth. He can't go dragging her back to his family, to Alice, without her knowing why. He doesn't know if the stirrings of affection he has for her, all the sharper now that they've got this feeling of worry backing them, are the beginnings of the love Alice had mentioned, it's strange still to think of loving anyone else, and for all he knows, that vision has long since been canceled out by some decision he's made, or she has. Maybe just now, in these last few minutes.
But maybe not. And even if it has, he still owes her a whole truth, nothing piecemeal this time.
He ascends the stairs slowly, making noise as he goes, letting them creak beneath his weight, so she'll know he's coming, and he pauses near the top of the stairs before he steps into the hallway. "I am sorry," he says sincerely, certain she can hear him no matter whose room she's in. "Both for that moment downstairs, and because there is something I did not tell you about Alice's vision. I didn't know how. I didn't think you wouldn't believe me, but I wasn't certain you'd..." He trails off and sighs, and turns to sit on the top step. "Alice said I'd meet a woman with red hair, who's sharp and angry, but not always, that she'd feed me and I'd keep her warm, and that I would love her. ...you. That I'd bring you back, into both our lives, and she'd love you too. She said she'd wait, for the both of us. If she was here, you'd know she's...you'd just know. She's better with her words than I am."
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He stands slowly as she retreats, and it is a retreat even if it has an intended goal at the end of it. He almost calls her name, asks her to stop, but after a few narrow-eyed moments spent trying to read her—and it's a challenge like this, after she's been so open with him—he lets her go and finishes tidying up the room in record time.
Should've told her the whole truth, he scolds himself as the pieces of the coffee table go into a garbage bin in the garage, to sit there for who knows how long, and he returns and examines the crack in the wall with absent attention. He owes her the whole truth. He can't go dragging her back to his family, to Alice, without her knowing why. He doesn't know if the stirrings of affection he has for her, all the sharper now that they've got this feeling of worry backing them, are the beginnings of the love Alice had mentioned, it's strange still to think of loving anyone else, and for all he knows, that vision has long since been canceled out by some decision he's made, or she has. Maybe just now, in these last few minutes.
But maybe not. And even if it has, he still owes her a whole truth, nothing piecemeal this time.
He ascends the stairs slowly, making noise as he goes, letting them creak beneath his weight, so she'll know he's coming, and he pauses near the top of the stairs before he steps into the hallway. "I am sorry," he says sincerely, certain she can hear him no matter whose room she's in. "Both for that moment downstairs, and because there is something I did not tell you about Alice's vision. I didn't know how. I didn't think you wouldn't believe me, but I wasn't certain you'd..." He trails off and sighs, and turns to sit on the top step. "Alice said I'd meet a woman with red hair, who's sharp and angry, but not always, that she'd feed me and I'd keep her warm, and that I would love her. ...you. That I'd bring you back, into both our lives, and she'd love you too. She said she'd wait, for the both of us. If she was here, you'd know she's...you'd just know. She's better with her words than I am."