“That’s … very specific wording.”
“It’s accurate.”
I studied him, then gestured slightly toward the scarf. “Then whose is it?”
A pause.
Then, “My mother’s.”
Everything in me stalled.
“What?”
“She visited recently.”
I blinked. “You have a relationship with your mother?”
“Yes.”
Simple. Direct. No elaboration.
I glanced back at the scarf, then at him again.
“I didn’t picture that,” I admitted.
“I know.”
There was no defensiveness in it. No need to correct me. Just acknowledgment.
“And you just left it there?” I asked.
“I don’t notice things like that.”
“That’s not true,” I said immediately. “You notice everything.”
A small pause.
Then, quieter, “Not everything.”
Something about the way he said that shifted the moment.
Softened it.
“You could have told me,” I said.
“You didn’t ask.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask if there’s another woman.”
“There isn’t.”
The certainty in that answer settled something in me I hadn’t fully acknowledged was unsettled.
I nodded once. “Okay.”
He watched me for a moment.
“You were jealous,” he said.
