The forks.
The glasses.
I light a candle in the center of the table.
The flame flickers softly.
He isn’t your real husband,a voice in my head taunts.Don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t a romance novel.
I stare at the flame for one long second.
Then I blow it out.
No candle.
The rumble of the garage door rolls through the house.
My stomach flips so hard I nearly drop the wine glass in my hand.
He’s home.
After the way we left things last night, I’m nervous to see him.
This whole situation makes no sense.
We’re married, but we’re not together.
He doesn’t seem to like me, but he saves me from drowning.
He doesn’t want me living here, but he lets me stay.
He keeps his distance, but he kisses me like he’s starving.
I don’t know what to think anymore.
I smooth my hands down my shirt, as if that might somehow press the confusion flat along with the fabric.
The door from the garage swings open, and Jake steps inside.
He looks exhausted.
His shoulders are tight. His jaw locked. His practice bag hangs from one shoulder like he barely remembers it’s there.
He looks like the day worked him over and didn’t apologize for it.
“Hey,” he mutters.
“Hey,” I reply, aiming for casual instead of I’ve been mentally preparing for this for the past hour.
He drops his bag against the wall with a dull thud.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” I say.
That gets his attention.
He looks at me. Really looks at me.
“Dinner?” he repeats.
