A slow smile creeps across my face. He’s right. We’re arguing every day, several times a day, but maybe one night of peace might help. And this is what I need: a night where he’s not protecting me and I’m not a lamb waiting to be slaughtered.
I take his offered hand. He squeezes gently, a strangely reassuring action.
“Ella Gibson.”
“Sit, Ella Gibson.”
I sit at the kitchen table and watch him work. He moves around effortlessly, taking a large dish out of the oven. It smells delicious, and when he starts cutting up garlic bread, I almost start salivating.
He plates up lasagna and salad, placing a board overfilled with garlic bread in the center of the table and taking a seat.
And we eat.
It’s quiet. Almost uncomfortable. Like we’ve suddenly forgotten how to be around each other, or it’s a first date that we immediately regret agreeing to.
I decide to break the silence first, going along with his roleplay.
“So, what do you for a living, Gable?”
“I’m a contract killer.”
“Ah.” I pick up my glass of wine. “Fascinating. How did you get into that line of work?”
He presses his lips together, clearly trying to hide a smile. “That’s a long, boring story. What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh, you’rethatElla Gibson,” he says. “I thought I recognized you.”
I flick my hair over my shoulder. “I’m incredibly famous.”
“I read somewhere that you’re also incredibly annoying.” He forks more lasagna into his mouth, then swallows. I scoff. “What’s your favorite thing about writing?”
“Getting lost in worlds that aren’t real. There’s nothing better than my imagination. What’s your favorite thing about murder?”
He takes a bit of garlic bread and chews, clearly thinking very seriously about his answer.
“It’s quiet.”
I chuckle and fork some more lasagna into my mouth, chewing and swallowing before speaking again. “Really? People don’t scream and beg?”
“After,” he clarifies. “It’s quiet after. In here.” He taps his temple and continues eating. I watch him for a moment. I’ve never thought of death as a quiet thing. It’s sad, anddark, and inevitable, but I’ve never considered the silence that the end brings.
“Where did you grow up?” I ask, returning to my meal.
“SoCal.”
“No way. Me too.”
“I hated it.”
I wince. “Oh. Why?”
“I’m not really a sun kinda guy.” He’s already finished his lasagna and gets up to serve himself more. He returns to his chair. “I bet you loved beach days with all the jocks.”
“Jocks? Are you kidding? My dad was a local cop, and I used to prefer the library. The most conversations I had were with my characters. What kind of kid were you in school? Smoking behind the math block?”
He laughs. “Yes.”
