The Wrong Kind of Love

I iron Ethan’s dress shirts, fold his T-shirts and athletic shorts, and carry the basket to his bedroom to put away his clothes. In the doorway to his room, I hesitate. This was never on my list of chores. Lilly’s laundry, sure, but not Ethan’s.

At the last house I stayed at, I did everyone’s laundry, so I didn’t even think before tossing his in with the rest. But suddenly it feels like an invasion of privacy to walk into his bedroom and put away his clothes.

I take a breath. I’ve made it this far. Acting weird about it is just going to make it more awkward. I brace myself and flip on the lights.

The bedroom is large, with floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall. The drapes have been opened—or maybe they always are—and dappled sunlight pours into the space from the big backyard. I take in the walnut bedside tables and the dresser across from the foot of the bed.

I can tell which side of the bed Ethan sleeps on—the covers are turned down from where he got out of bed this morning. A crime novel sits on his bedside table with a little notepad and pencil, as if he makes notes to himself while he’s in bed. On the opposite side of the bed, there’s a self-help book that was popular with the daytime TV hosts when I started college. I walk over and skim my fingers over it. A pencil marks a place inside, and I open it out of curiosity. A feminine scrawl covers the margins. The notes are a seemingly unconnected series of thoughts.

Happiness is a journey.

Tell Ethan you love him every time you see him!!!

We believe the lies we tell ourselves.

Marriages take work.

Love born in a lie is THE WRONG KIND OF LOVE!

I snap the book shut and put it back on the bedside table, feeling like I’ve just eavesdropped on a very personal conversation. I do my best not to analyze her notes—the state of her marriage when she died isn’t my business, and, frankly, it’s irrelevant.

But the book itself is telling—not just its subject or her notes inside, but the fact that Elena’s been gone three years, and the book she was reading when she died is still sitting on the bedside table.

Has he opened it? Does he know what she wrote inside?

I swallow hard and back away. Kathleen didn’t hire my sister to fix her son or help him let go of his wife. I need to mind my own business until Ethan finds my replacement, but the more I learn about this family, the more questions I have.

I put his casual clothes in his dresser, then flip on the lights to the walk-in closet to put away his dress shirts and pants. The lights flicker, and my breath catches when they illuminate the walk-in closet. It’s filled with women’s clothes. I look over to the other side of the dresser and realize there’s another door that must be his, but I can’t look away from all the contents of this closet.

These must be Elena’s. Has Ethan gotten rid of anything of hers? Does he carry on as if his dead wife still lives here?

“What are you doing in here?”

I jump at the sound of Ethan’s voice and drop the pile of his clothes as I spin around. “I’m just putting away clothes.”

He looks from the slacks on the floor to the lit-up closet behind me. “You’re putting my clothes away in my wife’s closet?”

I swallow. Is it any use to pretend I wasn’t snooping? I squat down and scoop up his dress pants. “I’m sorry. I went into the wrong closet at first and then my curiosity got the best of me.” I take a breath. “If you need any help moving that stuff out . . .” I flinch, realizing how callous that sounds. “I just mean if you need any help sorting through it. I’m sure it must be hard to decide what to keep and what to donate. And you’re really busy. You have an important job and a big family, and you probably want to spend as much time as you can with Lilly.” Dear God. I’m rambling. I take a deep breath. “I’m here all day while Lilly’s at school. All I mean is that I’d be happy to help.”

He lifts his chin. “Why don’t you just worry about yourself?”

“Ethan . . .” I step forward, wanting to say sorry but biting back the words. I apologize too frequently. I need to stop apologizing when I haven’t done anything wrong.

He folds his arms. He seemed more accepting of me when he woke me this morning, but now I feel like we’ve taken two steps back. “Why did you really take this job?”

I carry the stack of clothes back to the basket and avoid his gaze while I try to imagine what Veronica would say. “Because it pays well, and it’s a great opportunity to live in a new place.”