“About what?” Ignorance was never a good look on me, and by the way her eyebrow arches, she agrees. But I don’t say anything else, turning to shove the bread into the toaster.
“Do I have to pry it out of you, Jones?” she grumbles, dropping a scandalous amount of butter into the skillet. The steam crackles and screams in agreement.
I shrug, and she swats at me with the kitchen towel. I hold up two different cheese options, and she points to the cheddar.
We fall into a two-person assembly line, making enough grilled cheese to feed an army. She doesn’t press, but I can feel her practically vibrating withcuriosity. Curious about Steven, about us, our future. She’s dying to talk about it. Everyone is. The Jones family doesn’t understand privacy, which has never bothered me in the past. I wasn’t ever one to hide who I am. And they’ve accepted me, made space for all of me, even the anxious parts.
“How’s the new job?” she asks flatly, a poor attempt at redirection.
“Just ask me, Jay.”
Hesitation flickers across her face as a sandwich starts to burn.
“Shoot,” she hisses, flipping it sloppily. Once it’s charred beyond repair, she slides it onto its own plate and tries again. “How’s he doing? How are you doing?”
The question of the month. And I still don’t have an answer.
“He’s okay.” My tone is the least convincing it could be, and Jay tsks in response. “Fine. I don’t know how he is. I thought he was handling things as well as one could, given the circumstances. But then we got here, and I was worried about coming. You were too.” She nods in agreement, flipping the sandwich. “And I can see him retreating. He’s angry—rightfully so—but I don’t know how to approach it. I hate not knowing how to help him.” I shove a whole slice of cheese into my mouth. “I shouldn’t expect things to be perfect, but I just…”—my words muffle around the chewing—“I hoped it’d be okay.”
Jay plops the final sandwich onto the pile before she clicks off the stove and faces me fully. Her eyes are every bit as empathetic and understanding as one’s could be when she says, “Honestly…and I hate to say this, but I’m not surprised.”
I don’t get a chance to dissect this because Steven and his dad come barreling through the back door with their arms full of grocery bags.
“Told ya,” Steven says at the same time his dad grumbles, “Don’t make me do that again.”
Tom unloads his arms, grimacing. He rubs the plastic-bag indentations off his forearms and shuffles into the living room. Jay follows with the tower of sandwiches.
“Hi,” Steven says, kissing me stiffly on the forehead.
I force a smile as unease bubbles inside me. Being around him doesn’t feel as good as it did yesterday, and I hate how fickle my feelings for him can be. We start unpacking the groceries in silence, and Steven instructs me on where everything goes as if I haven’t been here countless times before.
“No, not that!” he snaps, lunging for the last bag in my hands. “That’s for the party,” he mutters, tossing it on top of the fridge.
Then it gets awkward. I bump into him, he tries to step out of the way but steps into me, and we end up circling each other in that weird way that makes you want to pull your hair out. Anyone watching us right now would never guess we’re married.
“Sorry…” I say.
He doesn’t acknowledge it as he begins to unload the dishwasher. His forearms flex and twist as he moves the glasses to the cabinet. His skin is scuffed up from hauling bales of hay, his shoes are caked with dirt, and his face is a mask of exhaustion.
As he continues to busy himself,barely speaking to me,a zap of dread shoots through me, beating behind my ribs. I whip around and grip the counter feeling the immediate need to count my breaths.
It’s my fault. Everything is my fault.
“You alright?” Steven asks behind me. He’s closer now, and I feel his breath brush against the side of my cheek. My eyes threaten to flutter shut at the familiar pull that comes over me to lean into him. The desire seeps through me like honey. Slow, sweet, and nearly impossible to shake off.
When I don’t respond, he tries again. “Em?”
“Yes?” I don’t turn around. My clammy palms slip against the granite.
“What are you doing?”
“I just need aminute, Steven.” I hate myself instantly for how his name comes out. Like saying it disgusts me. But it doesn’t.Hedoesn’t. I pinch my eyes shut, and the silence that lingers sends a cold chill down my spine.
“Did I do something?”
The pain in his voice stings behind my eyes. I hate that I put it there. That I’m the reason he sounds anything but happy.
“Is this how it is now?” His voice is low now, sharp. “Do we whisper-fight in the kitchen over nothing all the time?”
