When The Sun Sets

4: Not One To Admit Fault

Part One | Chapter Four: Not One To Admit Fault

Greenwich Village, New York

May 1919

The walk back home from the school on Thursday is when I let my mind wander away from Harry and my job. They preoccupy nearly all of my thoughts, I rarely have the time to think about how my day is and if there's anything aside from those two subjects that has been bothering me. My interactions with adults are at an all time low, the last time they'd been this low having been back in France when I'd take care of my siblings when my parents were away at work. I've always had a likening for children, though I've never considered having my own. I couldn't burden myself or Harry with a child.

Thea completely agrees with me. She thinks children only ruin the relationship between two lovers, coming in between and separating them like the plague. While I don't believe this to be true and it's not my reason to not have children, it's a thought to consider. The little intimacy I currently have with Harry would be reduced to nothing. Of course Harry would have to touch me in order for me to become pregnant. And that idea seems laughable enough.

There my thoughts go again, returning back to Harry. I imagine him in bed, reading one of his many books he brought back from the war. When he showed up at New York Pennsylvania Station, his duffel bag was filled with books from places he visited, and I didn't have to pry about them to learn he'd grown very fond of them, reading them even if he didn't understand the language. One of the books is in French. Harry doesn't know French, or at least not enough to string together a coherent sentence, which makes his keeping the book comical to me.

Seeing this particular book in a different language made me realize just the tip of how much Harry changed during the months I didn't see him, transforming into a stranger altogether. Harry would have laughed at books he didn't understand, making fun of the way I read them out loud in certain voices to portray the truth of French nature. Now, he often sleeps with the various books cradled to his chest. On a few occasions, I've tried to remove them from his grasp in an attempt to help him sleep better, but he always rouses and quietly asks me to return his belongings to him.

I don't mind giving into him when he asks for those small things. If it helps him find peace, then I will not be the one to ruin it for him.

When I arrive at home, I sense that the atmosphere is different. I'm not sure what gives it away: the smell of the meat on the stove or the absence of the blanket that's usually thrown over the sofa where Harry naps. Cautiously, I step into the house after removing my shoes and jacket, dabbing at the back of my sweaty neck.

"Harry?"

I find him in the kitchen silently slicing some cucumbers, slowly and deliberately to keep all the pieces uniform. When he hears my shoes, he looks up and lays the knife down, sliding it away. He blinks at me. "I made dinner. Bags are all packed up too."

"Oh. That was quick."

"Just ready to get out of here."

It strikes me that Harry doesn't understand he will be returning to this place in less than three days time. I'm unsure what kind of fantasy he's living in, but this fake world he's made in his head isn't permanent and I'm worried to see the repercussions. One thing seems to be similar between both Harry's and that's his stubbornness. I can tell his mind is made up and everything I say will fall upon with deaf ears.

Luckily for him, I don't have complaints. I've already packed my bags and set them in the living room by the couch.

I eat dinner quietly, looking at Harry. He stares behind me, eyes distanced and hazy as he daydreams about something I've yet to figure out, unblinking.