The weather has cooled significantly. Now when Wally goes out in the mornings, it's in a wet suit. April southerlies bite at the waves, whipping them into a frenzy as they walk from the cafe towards the church.
She leans against him as they walk, holding his arm with one hand, and keeping her dress from flying up with the other. A gust comes chasing along the shore, sending her toddling a little in her heels.
Robert looks down, amused. "Should we get a cab?"
"No, it's just a few more blocks. It's just the damn wind."
"You ever been to mass?"
"Uh, one time I participated in Tarawih every night during Ramadan with my roommate."
"Did you fast?"
"Um, considering I was exercising five hours a day and working doubles at that point, I excused myself."
"Wasn't your mum Lutheran?"
"Yes, but we stopped going once she died. I never really had that altar-boy spirit anyway," she jokes. She always teases him about the fact he went to seminary, not because she's derogatory, but just because he's so good compared to her.
"I think Lutheran's have acolytes, don't they?" They turn down a side street and join the stream of people, all in their Easter best. They climb the steps and disentangle themselves as they get out of the wind.
The sanctuary smells of old wood and musty stone, as if its been standing since the beginning of time. Robert doesn't smile at anyone in particular; he only comes here three times a year - Easter, Christmas, and his mother's birthday - not nearly enough for anyone to recognize him. He leads her down the aisle and into a pew, settling with an arm around her; they've been together a year, more than long enough for him to know when she's uncomfortable.
"So, what do you believe, then?"
She turns, surprised at the question. Wisps have escaped her french braid, making a halo behind her head. The wind has brought colour into her already rosy cheeks. Her unruly eyebrows are raised over eyes catching the late evening sun. A look of helplessness draws over her face, as she grasps for words to describe the faith that three dead siblings and a dead-beat father leaves you with. Strains from the organ save her from answering.
She stares at herself in the mirror later that night. It's not something she does often: she does her hair without looking, never wears make-up, but right now she's forcing herself to examine her reflection as she combs out her damp hair.
"Robert?" She can see him in the mirror too: through the doorway to the bed where he's lying, doing something on the laptop.
"Hm?"
"I believe in something or someone knew your quitting seminary wasn't a bad thing because you were meant to save me, and I'm sorry I'm so sad all the time, and I'm sorry you have to take care of me but I'm so glad you do and that I have you because if I didn't I don't know where I would be without you."
She says it all so quickly that he can hardly hear what she's saying. They're left staring at each other through the mirror in a stunned silence.
Robert closes the computer and sets it on the bedside table. "Come here Bowen."
She shakes her head, looking down. "No, I'm sorry. That was stupid-"
He sighs in exasperation. "Just come 'ere Bo."
Setting the comb down on the counter, she turns and walks to the edge of the bed. They turn down the sheets and crawl in. For a while they just lie on their sides, looking at each other. He reaches out a hand and takes a lock of hair from her shoulder, twining it around his finger.
"You would've liked my mother," he says finally. "Before - before all the alcohol and everything. She would have adored you. When I was a kid, she used to take in all my friends. She loved having them over, loved making picnics for us to take to the beach…"
"She sounds wonderful."
"She was."
He pulls her a little and they shift so their heads rest on the same pillow.
"Jillie, when we were kids, would always do my make-up. She had this huge stash of Mum's that she hid from Dad and she loved to put it on me. I have this picture of us somewhere, she's like nine or ten, and I'm six, and we're in these plaid pinafores from school and she's crouching in front of me, and I have make-up all over my face. I look like a fucking clown." she laughs at the memory. "I think Bas took it. He would've been about fourteen, and I remember him laughing so hard at us. I don't think I saw him laugh like that after."
"Have you talked to Grant or Gage since the funeral?"
She brushes a piece of hair off his forehead, nodding sleepily. "Gage, yes. He says Grant is just rotten all the time, says he punched him last week."
"Grant punched Gage?"
"Yeah. In front of Lyssa and all."
"Fuck."
"Let's not talk about it." she rests her cheek against his. He smells like soap, plain and simple; he's never been one for cologne. His hand draws small circles on her back. Slowly, she kisses his jaw, trailing her mouth down his neck. Her hand slips under the hem of his shirt, toying along his stomach. The groan that he gives thrills her.
"Wally."
"Hm?" she draws back, a little happier, and nestles closer to him.
"I'm glad I have you." his eyes are serious, ernest. "Maybe I left so you could save me."
She rubs a thumb over his cheek, and kisses him, sleepily, slowly.
"I love you," he murmurs into her mouth. She draws back, surprised.
"I can't remember," she says slowly. "the last time someone said that to me." she kisses him again, harder, then giggles. "I'm sorry, I just - I love you too."
He flicks her nose, laughing. "You are such a dag."
"Shut-up you pom!"