35
Ilena
Sunday Evening
Three DaysAfterthe Outing
Ilena grabs the wet dish towel with her toes. Tiny soap bubbles billow out as she rubs the cloth against the silver rug. At least it’s not white. Still, not an ideal choice for a dining room, especially one that’ll soon see its share of mushed peas and sweet potatoes.
She draws the end of the towel back. The circle of red remains, bigger if anything, and she wonders if the universe is making some comment on that glass of red wine she tossed at Ethan in the bar in their world—the one Mallory had impossibly seen—because the stain is under his chair. Ilena’s not one to ponder signs, to make connections between coincidences, but here comes her husband with a spray bottle of rug cleaner, and she feels a bit dizzy.
“Easy there.” Felix rushes forward. “You should have waited for me. Hard for a go-getter, I know.”
“Well, you’ve always been a go-getter.”
Ilena’s knees buckle.
Felix sets his hand under her elbow and places the rug cleaner on the table. “I think we’re supposed to use this first.”
“Are we?” Ilena’s head swims. “We are, aren’t we.” She pictures Jonah’s wavy hair, those strands of gray peeking out among the dark brown. “I could always cover it with something.”
“Like what?”
“A fern?”
Jonah’s hair is right in front of her. If she could just reach out, just let her fingers... Her hand lifts, and Felix nabs it, encasing it in his as he guides her into the dining chair beside the one Ethan had sat in.
Felix says, “I think maybe tonight was a bit much. You seem a little out of it.”
She shakes her head. “A joke. A fern under a chair.”
“I’ve always thought a fern would look great in the living room.”
She adds, “Set some new trend.”
“You never think outside the box, I.”
Ilena’s pulse echoes in her temples. She was so sure. For a split second. Jonah, before her, close enough to touch, to hold, to love. She inhales a sharp breath.
“Ilena.” Concern strains Felix’s voice. The weight of his hands on her shoulders snaps her back.
Is it back? Could itbeback? Like some reverse déjà vu?
“Ilena,” Felix says with a firmness that makes her look up.
“I’m fine.” Her whole body trembles, and she gently rests her hand on her belly. “We’re fine, but perhaps you were right. Perhaps it was a bit much.”
Felix folds his hands around the top of a dining chair. His fingertips press in, hard, before he drags the chair back, twists it to face her, and sits. “What...” His voice is low and unsure in a way it never is. “What did he say to you?”
Dark, wavy hair, strands of gray. So close, close enough to touch.
“Nothing,” she whispers. “He didn’t have a chance.”
“He didn’t? But you were in the kitchen together, alone, for a while.”
Ilena startles. “Oh.”James, he means James.Here. James, here. She’s losing it. She’s completely losing it. “We were— Nothing, just chitchat.”
“Chitchat doesn’t make soufflés burn.” Felix’s lips tighten. “You don’t have to protect him, Ilena. It’s my fault.”
