“People are so generous,” Emmaline says, running her hand over the soft yellow blanket Marcus knitted. “I feel quite spoiled.”
“You deserve to be spoiled.” He sits beside her and pulls off her shoes, then lifts her feet into his lap and begins rubbing them gently.
She closes her eyes. “You’re a saint.”
“I’m really not.”
“You are. You stood there for two hours making small talk when I know you’d rather have been anywhere else.”
He doesn’t deny it. Social situations drain him, always have. Give him a classroom of fifteen-year-olds discussing Gatsby and he’s fine. Put him in a room of colleagues making polite conversation and he wants to crawl under the furniture.
“Everyone was nice, though,” he offers.
“They were. I liked the new couple. The McCandless-Connellys.”
“Yeah, Leo seems like a good guy. I think I’ll see if he wants to grab coffee next week.”
“And Sasha brought those sweet books.” Emmaline shifts, trying to find a comfortable position. There isn’t one. There hasn’t been for weeks. “She’s really enjoying reading The Payback. That must have been awesome to hear.”
His hands go still on her feet. “I guess.”
She opens her eyes. “You guess?”
He resumes the foot massage, focusing on her arch. “It’s just weird, people reading it. Talking about it, like it’smine.”
“It is yours. Your name is on the cover.”
“I know, but?—”
He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. But I didn’t really write it. But it doesn’t feel like mine. But every time someone compliments it, I feel like a fraud.
He should have told her when he had the chance, and now it’s too late.
“You’re too modest,” Emmaline says gently. “It’s a good book, Caleb. You should be proud.”
“I am proud.” He sighs heavily.
She studies him for a long moment. “You’ve seemed so stressed lately. Is the baby?”
“Of course not.”
She reaches for his hand. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’ve been distracted for weeks. You barely ate tonight.”
“I ate.”
“You pushed food around your plate.” Her dark eyes are concerned. “Is this about Turkey? Because that was a horrible coincidence, but it was a coincidence.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He says nothing. He wants it to be a coincidence. Desperately.
She sits up straighter, wincing as the baby kicks. “Listen to me. You wrote a thriller. It’s fiction. What happened in Turkey is tragic, but you are not responsible for it. You didn’t cause it.”
