His lips twitched. Practically a smile. “HR would call that gender-typing.”
“No. Well, yes.” I cleared my throat. “My aunt and uncle have a pretty traditional relationship, I guess.”
“The chicken farmers.”
“Wheat farmers. But we kept chickens, too. For the eggs.”
“What about you?”
“That was my responsibility—getting the eggs.”
“I was inquiring about your relationships.”
“Oh.” Flustered, I took another bun.
Gray used to call me his support, I remembered. His inspiration. And for two years, Ihadsupported him, picking up milk and the occasional houseplant, providing him with healthy meals and clean sheets and his favorite Scotch so he was free to create.
What we had was rare, Gray assured me. A unique bond between soul mates. But now, months later, I thought that in some ways the role I’d played was very ordinary. Even traditional. Not like my mother at all.
Tim was watching me, waiting for me to go on.
“I’m not in a relationship,” I said.
That stupid lump was back in my throat. Grief. Or swallowed rage? My eyes were wet.
Tim handed me a paper napkin. “Sorry. None of my business.”
I blew my nose. “No, I’m sorry.”
We turned our attention back to the TV. The competition was heating up, fucks and testosterone flying around the kitchen.
It felt warmer on the couch, too.
Tim got up to put the peas back in the freezer. Right. Mustn’t leave drips on the coffee table.
“I heard from my ex-boyfriend today,” I said when he came back.
Tim turned his head. “The one you’re not in a relationship with.”
I nodded, pretending to watch the chef from Scotland plate up for the judges.
“What did he want?”
His message flashed in my head.The semester started and you’re not here.
My mouth opened. Shut. “I’m not sure.”
“He must have said.”
“Not really. I mean, I haven’t spoken to him in nearly six months.”
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,”Gray had said to me.“Why don’t you get on with your own life?”
“His loss.”
I blinked. “Was that a compliment?”
A small dent appeared in his right cheek. “It was.”
