“Trying to have a conversation,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Well, don’t.”
My fork clattered against the plate. “So you can cook me dinner and clean up my messes, but I can’t ask you a simple question?”
He didn’t answer, just went back to his tofu.
I shoved my chair back. “Forget it.”
“Sitdown, Lillian.”
“Screw you.”
“Sit down and finish your food, Lillian.”
I dropped back into the chair so hard it wobbled. “Stop saying my name. And stop bossing me around. I’m not a dog. And I’m clearly not a person either.”
He let out a long sigh. “What is your problem?”
“Youare my problem,” I snapped, heat rising up my neck. “We’re married, and we haven’t seen each other in over a month.”
“We both knew what we were signing up for.”
“Fine. But aren’t you...lonely? I’m not weird for craving conversation, for craving—companionship—”
“Companionship,” he repeated with an incredulous laugh. “I knew this would happen.”
“Knew what would happen?”
He set his knife down, meeting my eyes. “This. I knew you would want something more.”
“Oh,please. Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not interested in being yourlover, Khalifa.” The word burned my mouth. “But why can’t we just be...?”
“Be what?”
“Friends. Am I that intolerable that you can’t even exchange a few words with me?”
I regretted it instantly—hated that I had no filter, hated even more that I cared whether he spoke to me or not. My tongue had always belonged to my emotions; once they surged, they took over, spilling everything raw and unedited across the table.
He held my gaze, steady and unreadable, until the void stretched hot across my skin, exposing all my layers with a single look.
I broke eye contact first, shoving another bite into my mouth, chewing fast so I could escape the moment. He grabbed his knife again, went in for another slice and hissed. I looked up in time to see him yank his hand back, fingers curling instinctively into a fist. Red welled between his knuckles, slipping free despite his best effort to contain it.
I was on my feet before my brain caught up. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said immediately, closing his hand tighter like that might magically solve things. Blood continued to make a run for it, tracing a line down his wrist.
“For the love ofGod, just let me see,” I demanded, already crossing the kitchen. “The only way I’ll allow you to bleed to death is if I’m the one responsible.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Right. My apologies. I forgot that suggesting we have anormal, adult conversation was apparently a high-risk activity for you. Besides,” I added slyly, “if I were responsible, you’d be in much worse shape than this. Now open your hand.”
“I said I’m—”
“—opening,” I finished for him, palm out expectantly.
He sighed, unfurling his fist. I steered him toward the sink, guiding his hand under the cold water. The blood thinned as it rinsed away, revealing the wound more clearly.
