I looked at her.
Her face turned pink.
“No candles.”
I laughed.
So did she.
It did not erase anything.
But it was something.
Brenda arrived twenty minutes later, saw the cake and nearly dropped the bowl she was carrying.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
Sloan groaned.
“Brenda.”
“I’m just saying, Carol, keep this one away from the patio.”
For a terrible second, nobody knew whether to laugh.
Then Harrison did.
I did.
Even Sloan.
The tension broke.
Later that evening, Harrison helped me wash dishes.
“You seem better,” I said.
He looked toward the living room where Sloan and Brenda were talking.
“I am.”
“How are you two?”
“Better.”
I nodded.
He dried a plate.
“We had some bad weeks after we moved.”
“I assumed.”
“She blamed me for taking your side.”
“And did you?”
He smiled faintly.
“I stopped thinking there had to be sides.”
I looked at him.
That was the best thing he could have said.
He continued.
“I told her I wasn’t going to lie for her anymore.”
“Good.”
“And I told her I wasn’t going to lie for myself either.”
I handed him another plate.
“Better.”
He looked at me.
“Did you hate me?”
The question stopped me.
“When?”
“After the bank.”
I put the dish towel down.
“No.”
“Were you disappointed?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I deserved that.”
“This is not about deserving.”
“Then what is it about?”
“Consequences.”
He leaned against the counter.
“I thought you’d stop loving me.”
“Harrison.”
“I know it sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.”
Because suddenly I understood something.
He had hidden the truth partly because he was afraid that if I saw him clearly, I would love him less.
Sloan had hidden the truth because she was ashamed of failing.
I had hidden my anger because I was afraid honesty would cost me my son.
All three of us had spent a year pretending.
No wonder the house had become unbearable.
“I can be angry with you and love you,” I said.
He looked at me.
“I can be disappointed in you and love you.”
His eyes reddened.
“I can tell you no and love you.”
He nodded.
“And you can disagree with me without abandoning me.”
“I know that now.”
“Good.”
I picked up the towel.
“Dry the plate.”
He laughed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The emergency account slowly recovered.
It took time.
I rebuilt part of it myself.
Harrison and Sloan continued repaying the rest.
I never charged interest.
Brenda told me I should.
Brenda also wanted me to keep the burned Gucci bag and hang it over the fireplace as a warning.
I declined both suggestions.
But the handbag remained important in another way.
Six months after they moved out, Sloan asked me to meet her for coffee.
Alone.
I almost said no.
Then I agreed.
She arrived before me.
No designer purse.
Just a simple black bag beside her chair.
I noticed that immediately and hated myself a little for noticing.
She saw me look.
“That one was forty dollars.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.”
We both smiled.
Then she became serious.
“I wanted to tell you something.”
I waited.
“I blamed you for a lot.”
“I know.”
“I blamed you when Harrison lost his job.
I blamed you because moving here made me feel like my life had gone backward.
I blamed you because he listened to you.
I blamed you every time I felt embarrassed.”
She twisted the cardboard sleeve around her coffee cup.
“And when I started using the money, I told myself it didn’t matter because you had more.”
I said nothing.
“I told myself I would repay it.”
I nodded.
“And then every time I saw you, I felt like you somehow knew.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
She looked toward the window.
“I started resenting you for something you didn’t even know.”
That sentence stayed with me.
It explained the strange hostility I had felt all year.
I had become the human reminder of her guilt.
“The cake,” she continued, “was because I wanted you to be the bad guy for once.”