The living area is very similar to my own in terms of layout, and I notice something right away: the paintings on the walls are the same paintings I had downstairs. The couches are different, big and leather, extremely nice, but my throw pillows and blankets are neatly stacked and folded. On the coffee table, my magazines are spread out in a fan.
And tucked in the corner on top of a large, deep bay window, a mirror of my own, is a reading nook: different, but close enough, strung with twinkling Christmas lights glowing a dull orange and creating a cozy ambiance. Pillows, blankets, a little cushion, and my books plus even more, all of them neatly arranged, just the way I’d left them.
There’s other stuff too: a desk, a computer, a television, a guitar hanging on the wall, black and white photographs of Phoenix landmarks, a bookcase practically overflowing, a stereo and vinyl records tucked along a shelving unit, bottles of fancy alcohol on a serving tray, more. It’s my stuff folded into his stuff, our two worlds melded together. I glean things about him from one look around that I never would’ve guessed: he likes music, he likes Phoenix, he likes hiking, he likes to read history. He’s got a surprising number of DVDs, which are all hilariously out of date now. There’s more to him than blood and death and extortion. More to him than pain.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” he says, drifting toward the nook. Not looking at me, like he can’t. “When I was out with Nico, I had something like a revelation. What we’re doing right now, it’s half a marriage. We’re husband and wife on paper, but in reality, we’re strangers. I want to fix that.”
I’m jolted from my sudden reverie as what he’s saying sinks in. “You want to share a room?” It’s so simple and yet it makes my core clench with a nervous tightness.
He nods once. “I want to share a space. We will live together like husband and wife should, no more of this pretending like we’re not truly together. I know you aren’t committed yet, but you will be and this is the start.”
“Casso,” I say, because what else is there? This is the most absurd, insane, stupid, absolutely crazy idea I’ve ever heard. We can barely be around each other for ten minutes without wanting to murder the other and yet he wants to sleep in the same bed? One of us will be dead before the end of the week.
“I know you don’t like it. I’m sure you’d rather stay in your own space and live far from me if you can, but this is happening, Olivia, and it’s time we both accept it. You think I want to let someone into this place? This is mine and has been for a while, but it’s time we grow up.”
“Grow up,” I echo, shaking my head. “We’re going to kill each other. You know that, right?”
His smile is so bright I have to blink. “I’d love to see you try.”
“It’s not funny. This isn’t a good joke.” This is a nightmare if anything.
“I’m not laughing, my wife. I have two more things to show you.” He leads me down a short hallway and he stops at the first door on the right. It’s another room, but this one smaller, the size of an average bedroom. There’s a futon, a desk, and not much else. “Blank canvas. Your space. Do with it whatever you want. Make it into a slaughterhouse or an art studio. Whatever you want.” A tight, wry smile.
I step inside. “Smaller than I’d like.” But I feel a little wobbling excitement in my chest. He’s trying. The thought is strange, foreign, but true. He’s actually trying.
He laughs. “It’s the best I can do. It used to be my gym, so be thankful I’m giving it up for you.”
“What a sacrifice. Now you have to walk downstairs to lift weights.”
He grunts as if I’m not joking and that is a real inconvenience before he takes me to the final room. It’s the bedroom, the actual bedroom, his bedroom. It’s hard to imagine him asleep. People are vulnerable when they go under for the night, and the idea of Casso letting himself be vulnerable seems impossible. Surely he sleeps with his eyes open, his hands on a gun. Surely he doesn’t sleep at all. Everything he does is a dream.
The room feels oddly warm, despite everything. The colors are mostly gray and black with splashes of green and navy blue. My things are in drawers and in the massive walk-in closet, lovingly arranged. He cared enough to fold my underwear, which I find almost hilarious: normally, I shove it all away wadded up in balls. There’s an attached bathroom, and another out in the hall, and the bed is nearly twice as big as the one I’d been sleeping in at this point, and three times the size of what I had in Mexico. I hesitate and sit on the edge of it, bouncing slightly to assess the comfort. Not too bad.