Thibault
Despite the rain, Thibault couldn’t imagine going back to his house. He wanted to be outside; it didn’t feel right to be warm and dry. He wanted to purge himself of what he had done, of all the lies he had told.
She’d been right: He hadn’t been honest with her. Despite the hurt he felt at some of the things she’d said and her unwillingness to listen, she had been justified in feeling betrayed. But how to explain? He didn’t fully understand why he’d come, even when he tried to put it into words. He could see why she interpreted his actions as those of an obsessed madman. And, yes, he was obsessed, just not in the way she imagined.
He should have told her about the photograph as soon as he’d arrived, and he struggled to remember why he hadn’t done so. Odds were, she would have been surprised and asked a few questions, but it would have ended at that. He suspected that Nana would have hired him anyway, and then none of this would have happened.
More than anything, he wanted to turn around and go back to her. He wanted to explain, to tell his whole story from the beginning.
He wouldn’t, though. She needed time alone—or at least time away from him. Time to recover and maybe, just maybe, understand that the Thibault she’d come to care for was the only Thibault there was. He wondered whether time alone would bring forgiveness.
Thibault sank in the mud; he noted as a car passed slowly that the water reached its axles. Up ahead, he saw the river stretching across the road. He decided to cut through the woods. Perhaps this would be the last time he would make this walk. Perhaps it was time to return to Colorado.
Thibault moved forward. The autumn foliage, still hanging on, provided partial cover from the rain, and as he walked deeper into the woods, he felt the distance between them grow with each step he took.