Page 193 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“And if I tell you to back off?”

“I back off.”

“If I tell you I need help?”

“I help.”

“If I tell you I don’t?”

“You struggle unnecessarily while I suffer nearby.”

I burst out laughing. “That sounded painful.”

“It is often painful.”

“Poor baby.”

“I am taller than you.”

“You can be a tall baby.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mon bébé.” My baby.

His face becomes horrified. My French may be improving after all. “Do not call me that.”

I beam. “Mon petit bébé.” My little baby.

“I will leave.”

“No, you won’t.”

His eyebrows rise, then he bends and kisses the top of my head. “I could.” I look up. “But I don’t want to.”

Camille gathers the empty cups and carries them toward the kitchen.

I watch him go through my door.

There are nights I wake from a dream about Henri and reach across the bed before I am even fully conscious, searching for Camille’s warmth.

There are days when a memory of Paul hits sideways, and I call Camille because hearing his voice makes the room feel solid again.

There are moments Camille disappears inside grief for his mother or father and sits beside me without speaking because what he needs is not advice but another living person in the room.

Dependence is not the same thing as captivity.

Love is not the same thing as surrender.

I can need Camille and still have a house with my name on the paperwork.

I can love him and still close my own front door.

I can give him a key without giving him ownership.

And he can walk through that gate because I put it there.

Camille comes back outside. “You are becoming sentimental.”