I’ve been studying her for months. I know how she takes her coffee, the color she prefers on her nails, the way her mouth moves when she sleeps. I don’t know what she looks like when she’s happy. But I will.
That’s not to say I meant to keep her this long. And, of course, you, well you, never intended to keep her at all. But then, what’s done is done.
“I want you to be happy here,” I told her the first week she was here, not long after we let the drugs wear off completely.
“I don’t see how that’s possible,” she said.
“Tell me what makes you happy.”
I could see her thinking about my question; I could see that I’d set something into motion. It wasn’t immediate—most things that are truly great rarely are, but eventually her lips turned upward. Slowly, she broke out into a full-on smile, and it was like the sun coming out on a cloudy day. “He makes me happy.”
“Your husband,” I said. It wasn’t a question. Mostly because it hadn’t occurred to me that it should be.
She laughed just slightly. The smile remained. “Something like that.”
“I see,” I told her, raising my brow.
She looked at me then, really looked at me. The smile faded but her eyes lit up. “Not yet, you don’t,” she said. “But you will.”