He comes in and stops. Takes in the smell, then the table, then me.
“Hello, wife.” An enormous grin spreads over his face. “What smells so amazing?”
“I cooked something special.” I stand, smoothing my dress—one of the ones he said was his favorite. “I hope you’re hungry.”
He looks at me like he’s ready to devourme.“Very.”
The food is delicious. I know it is. He says so twice, and Cillian doesn’t offer empty compliments. But I barely taste mine. I’m watching him—watching for the reaction that tells me whether I’ve succeeded, whether I’ve earned tonight, whether I’ve justified the cost of the ingredients and the afternoon and the whole arrangement.
“You’re not eating,” he says.
“I’m not very hungry.”
He sets down his fork. “Nora.”
“I’m fine. I just wanted it to be good for you.”
“It’s excellent. But you cooked all this and you’re not eating.”
“I tasted as I went.”
He doesn’t push. But he watches me the way he does when he’s decided something.
After dinner I’m on my feet before he finishes his last bite, stacking plates, moving to the kitchen.
“Leave it.” His voice, from the table.
“I’ll just?—”
“Nora. Leave it and come sit with me.”
I set the plates in the sink. A compromise. I come back to the living room and sit beside him on the couch, and he pulls me in, and for a moment it’s fine—his arm around me, the warmth of him, the specific safety of his body.
“Talk to me,” he says.
“About what?”
“About whatever you’ve been carrying all day.”
“I’ve just been home. Cooking.”
“And before that?”
I press my face against his shoulder. “Nothing. I cleaned. I reorganized the pantry.”
“Is that the fifth or sixth time this week?”
I pull back. “You’recounting?”
“I’m worried about my wife.” His voice isn’t accusing. Just matter-of-fact. “Something’s wrong. You’ve been off since dinner with my family, and that damn luncheon made it worse. Tonight, you cooked an elaborate dinner you didn’t eat and set the table like you’re auditioning for something. So talk to me.”
I look at the table I set with such care. The candles. The folded napkins.
Auditioning.
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
“I’m trying to be a good wife.”
