The kitchen shrank the moment Teddy entered it. Not literally—it remained the same modest galley with its granite counters and narrow butcher block island. Then again, maybe I’d just forgotten how much space he took up—not just physically, though his broad build and six-foot-two frame certainly commanded attention. I became hyperaware of every movement, every breath, the way my body automatically adjusted to accommodate his as we fell into patterns worn smooth by decades of practice.
He set the Romano’s bag on the counter and started unpacking the food containers one by one while I grabbed a couple of serving spoons from an enamel canister next to the stove. We moved like dancers who’d memorized the steps so thoroughly that muscle memory overrode the fact we hadn’t performed together in two years—orone year and ten months, as he’d been so quick to point out.
“Forks are in the drawer to your left,” I said without thinking, then caught myself. This wasn’t our kitchen. This wasn’t our home. And I had no idea where anything was.
But he pulled open the drawer all the same. Different kitchen, same layout. Same silverware drawer. Countless hours of dinner preparations, thousands of shared meals, and now here we were, strangers playing house with takeout containers.
The space between the counter and the small island meant we had to slide past each other. Once, twice, three times, we managed it without contact, just the whisper of air between us. But the kitchen was too small for two people who were trying so hard not to touch each other.
I found the plates on the open shelving to the right of the sink and rose onto my toes to grab them. Without a word, Teddy moved behind me, the heat of his body seeping through my sweater.
“I’ve got it.” His fingers skimmed the small of my back as he reached around me, the kind of casual touch that used to occur on analmost daily basis. But now the contact shot through me like an electric current.
I was close enough to smell the leather of his kutte along with the unmistakable scent of pine and spice—the cologne he’d worn since we were kids. One that never failed to remind me of Christmas.
The smart thing would have been to step aside. The safe thing. Instead, I leaned back into him with a soft sigh, the tension instantly leaching from my body.
The plates trembled in his grip above us. His chest expanded against my back, and I felt more than heard the soft curse he growled into my hair. For one terrible, wonderful second, his fingers tightened on my hip, and he tugged me closer.
Then reality crashed back in. We jerked apart the same way we had when we were teens, and my parents flashed the porch light at us. My hip connected with the handle of the silverware drawer hard enough to make me wince while Teddy collided with the island at his back, nearly losing his grip on the plates in his haste to escape.
“Sorry,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for. The touch? Leaning in? The last year and ten months? All of it?
“Don’t.” His voice came out deeper than usual. He cleared his throat and nodded to the table. “Let’s just eat.”
He set the plates down with more force than necessary, the sound of ceramic clattering against the counter as loud as gunfire in the sudden silence.
I transferred the chicken parmesan onto our plates, willing my hands to stop shaking.
One dinner.
I just had to get through one dinner.
Then, I’d pawn him off on the girls, and things would go back to normal.
Teddy dumped the breadsticks into a glass mixing bowl and deposited them on the table before grabbing a couple of glasses. We moved around each other with exaggerated care now, maintaining a buffer zone that felt both necessary and ridiculous.
Once everything was laid out, he stripped off his kutte and draped it over the back of his chair, leaving him in a fitted black Henley. Itshould have been illegal for a man in his fifties to look that good. My mind drifted to the wine cabinet in the laundry room before I thought better of it.
We sat across from each other at the small dining table, and I immediately regretted not insisting on the breakfast bar where we would have been seated side by side, able to avoid eye contact. Instead, we were face-to-face with nowhere to look but at each other.
The only sounds were the scrape of knives against ceramic and the occasional clink of a fork finding its way back to the plate. We ate like prisoners, heads down, focused on the task of consumption rather than companionship.
Five minutes in, Teddy gestured at the breadsticks with his fork, a grunt that apparently passed for communication in his world.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” I kept my tone light, sweet even.
Another grunt, more emphatic this time, fork now actively pointing.
“Oh, you want the breadsticks?” I leaned back in my chair, making no move toward the mixing bowl that sat directly between us. “Interesting way of asking.”
His jaw tightened. “Pass the damn breadsticks, Kels.”
“Thirty-two years, and you’d think you’d learn the magic word by now.”
“Magic word?” The fork hit his plate. “Right. Because that’s what was missing from our marriage. Please and fucking thank you. Not the fact that you—” He stopped himself, nostrils flaring, but the damage was done. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
“Please, finish that sentence,” I said, my voice deadly quiet. “Tell me what I did to ruin our marriage. I’m dying to hear this version.”
