married Arthur because he was the first person in her adult life who hadn’t made her feel like a temporary arrangement.
The Kitchen at Midnight, the Chamomile Tea, and What She Told Him About Every Room She Had Ever Lived In
One night not long after the wedding, Arthur found her in the kitchen making chamomile tea with hands that weren’t entirely steady.
“You only make chamomile when you’re overwhelmed,” he said, pulling out the chair across from her.
She gave a small laugh. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“It’s absolutely true.”
“You could pretend not to notice, Arthur.”
“I’m eighty-four years old, Camille. I don’t have time to pretend I don’t see what’s in front of me.”
She looked down at the mug.
“My ex-fiancé asked me to move out two weeks before our wedding,” she said. “He said it was his apartment and I had no legal right
to stay. The man before him let me pay rent, but every time we argued, he reminded me my name wasn’t on the lease. Like he was keeping track, just in case.”
Arthur was quiet.
“When I was a kid, after my mother passed, I went to live with relatives who meant well. But it was always someone’s spare room. I learned not to spread out. I learned not to put things on shelves because shelves belonged to the house and the house belonged to someone else.”
Arthur’s face had shifted into the expression he got when something landed.
“So what do you want, Camille?” he asked.
She wiped her cheek with her sleeve before she could stop herself.
“I know what they all think of me. I know what it looks like.” She shook her head. “But what I want is a place where nobody can ever tell me
