Please do not leave me hanging, I will feel like such an asshole, he thought, and thank God, she moved to stand next to his chair. Tom gratefully turned his cheek against the round swell of her stomach and took advantage of a brief moment of peace with Rosie in his arms where she belonged.
“Mm. What do you want to do tonight?” he asked.
She hesitated, and he tilted his head up to see her catch her lower lip between her teeth. Her body was pressed against him, but surprisingly tense.
“We’re done for the day, right?” he prompted her.
“Yes. It’s looking fantastic. Thank you,” she said, even though Tom couldn’t claim any credit for the work that had been done today.
“Do you want to have game night?” Tom threw out, andRosie stilled, obviously interested. “I found the board game pile in the bunk room. Most of it survived the hurricane. Monopoly’s a loss”—this was a lie; Tom just hated Monopoly—“but we could do Scattergories? Cards Against Humanity? Apples to Apples?” Tom thought he was being very generous to offer to play party games in which there was no possibility of him singing.
“Um,” said Rosie. For some reason, her cheeks were bright pink. “I, um, I think I might just turn in early today?” She made this a question directed at him, even though she hadn’t run her schedule by him up to this point. And it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet.
“You don’t want to do anything?” Tom asked, surprised. Rosie wasn’t typically the first one to call it an evening.
“I…no.”
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked, because if Rosie was skipping game night, she probably had tuberculosis or something. The seductive rattle of plastic tiles against cardboard had been one of the few sounds he could use to lure Rosie out of a finals-season despair spiral. He leaned up to put a hand on her forehead, but she dodged. She met his gaze, eyes wide and nervous.
“No, no, I’m good. Just going to bed early.” Her throat moved as she swallowed. She gave tight smiles to Boyd and Ximena. “Good night.” She ran her fingers through the loose ends of Tom’s hair in a familiar way, then turned to go.
He sat back in such a funk of disappointment that for several minutes after Rosie left he didn’t notice that everyone else was looking at him.
“Jeez, no wonder you’re divorced,” Ximena said.
Boyd giggled, then covered it with a hand.
“What?” Tom demanded.
Ximena rolled her eyes. “For a decent actor, you’re sure missing a lot of cues.”
“What cues?” he said.
“I think she wanted you to go with her,” Boyd said from behind the hand he had clasped over his mouth.
Tom wheeled around as though the door through which Rosie had gone would tell him something.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Ximena snorted in the way of smug married people, which was a lot less charming than when he’d been a smug married person himself. She made a shooing gesture with her hands.
“We’ll see you tomorrow. Go make your wife yell happy yells.”
She and Boyd were now widely grinning, marveling at Tom’s confusion. Tom hesitated, trying to imagine what he’d possibly done today that would make him seem sexually appealing.
“Do you want me to ask her if that’s what she meant?” Boyd offered, seeing Tom’s hesitation.
Do you want to do it with Tom? Yes/No (Circle one)
“I’ll just check on her,” Tom announced. He stood up, head spinning like he’d tossed back a shot of something high proof. Why was he always the last one to know what Rosie wanted? He stalked off with his ears burning.
The windows of the cottage were dark when Tom reached the front door. He rapped quietly, just in case Rosie had actually gone to bed, but it was unlocked, and he heard her voiceinside. She’d only turned on the single overhead bathroom light, so she was a silhouette by the suitcase rack.
Even though she’d told him to come in, she straightened up as though startled. She pulled her hands back from the suitcase she was going through, one he hadn’t seen her unpack. When he drew closer, he recognized both the fabric at the top of the stack and the wide-eyed expression on Rosie’s face. The fabric was lace on satin, shimmering even in the low light, the top of a pile that also held black mesh, silk, and velvet. The expression—he knew that one from other nights he’d spent with her.
“Oh,” he said softly, putting two fingertips on something with tiny ruffles. “Were you going to put that on for me?”
Rosie’s lips pressed together, eyes big and uncertain. “Maybe?” she said.
