Wen had been determined to face her husband without tears, but now her vision blurred against her will. “There was too . . . much at stake. I knew you wouldn’t let me out . . . of the safe box you put me in. So I convinced Shae. You made us . . . have to lie.”
“I made you . . .” Hilo’s mouth stayed open for a second. Then it snapped closed. He stood up, tossing his napkin down. “Sometimes I think liars are almost as bad as thieves,” he said through a tight jaw. “They steal away trust, something that can’t be returned.” Before she could even rise from her chair, he left the house, his quick, sure movements and long strides easily outpacing hers.
_______
Hilo stormed out the door and got into the Duchesse, only to realize that in the heat of the moment, he’d left his car keys in the house along with his jacket, weapons, and wallet. He howled in frustration and banged the steering wheel, then rolled down the window and smoked three cigarettes in a row before he felt calm again.
He considered sleeping in the car tonight. Then he thought about walking over to the Weather Man’s house and asking his sister to let him spend the night on her sofa. Both ideas struck him as so pathetic that he laughed out loud in the dark. Imagining the withering look that Shae would give him was amusing and sobering at the same time. Although—something had happened lately between her and Woon. She was distracted and unhappy, so perhaps they could get drunk together for the first time in their lives and both cry into their cups of hoji. Hilo chuckled again.
When he’d walked into the house that evening and seen Wen looking so beautiful, waiting for him with a meal she’d put such effort into preparing, he’d wanted nothing more than to give his heart back to her completely, to make amends for every harsh moment between them. It had once been an effortless thing to tell his wife he loved her—three simple words in a single breath. A goodbye at the end of a phone call, an invitation to make love, a whisper before sleep.
Now it seemed an impassable emotional mountain. Every time he longed to make things right with Wen, anger yanked him back, like a hand jerking away from flame or Steel rising against a blade. How often had he found fault with Shae for keeping people at a distance—for half the time not being honest with herself, and half the time not being honest with others? Now he was the one sealed off, nursing his invisible wounds alone, just as Lan had once done.
The thought filled Hilo with gloom and dread. He was not a naturally self-sufficient personality. He knew that about himself. Perhaps some men truly did not need others, but very few, and there was usually something wrong with them to make them that way. The brotherhood of the clan was a promise that its warriors were not alone. What was the point of Green Bone oaths, of all the sacrifices his family had made, of the relentless war against their enemies, if in the end, the promise couldn’t even be kept for him and those he loved?
Still, he delayed. The hour grew late and he was out of cigarettes.
Hilo got out of the car and walked back to the house with heavy steps. A stalemate was no way to live in a marriage, that much he was forced to admit. The idea of divorce had nearly made his vision turn red and his head feel as if it were on fire. So that was not an option. He wasn’t sure he could forgive his wife, or his sister—but Anden had once said that understanding was more important than forgiveness. His kid cousin could be canny, in his own way.
The lights in the house were out, but his eyes were already adjusted to the dark. Wen had put away the remains of the dinner and fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room, curled on her side under a throw blanket. Perhaps she’d been waiting for him, or perhaps the staircase had seemed too daunting. Hilo stood over her, watching the soft rise and fall of her pale shoulders in time with her breaths. She was the softest and most vulnerable creature; she was the strongest and most unyielding of his warriors.
He bent and gathered her easily in his arms. As he carried her up the stairs and into the bedroom, she woke and murmured, groggily, “Hilo? What time is it?”
“It’s late,” he answered. “But not too late.” He laid her down on the bed and sat down on the mattress next to her. “I’m sorry about dinner. It was good, one of your best. But there’ll be others, even better I’m sure. Or we’ll go out next time.”
She said quietly, “All right.” She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.
“I shouldn’t have lost my temper and left the house like that, but I didn’t go anywhere—just out to the car.” He leaned over and brushed away the strands of hair stuck to her cheeks. The gesture was gentle, but his voice was not. “I think maybe mistakes made out of love are the worst sort, and we’ve both made them. Don’t ever talk about divorce again. I won’t bring it up myself. Understand?” She nodded.