Chapter nineteen
Lindsay
I'm curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket pulled up to my chin, the kind of position my body finds without consulting my brain—knees tucked, feet hidden, one arm draped over a throw pillow I'm not even using.
The living room is dim except for the glow of the television, and the movie is one I've seen so many times I don't need to look directly at the screen to know what's coming next. I could probably recite half the dialogue if pressed. Which is part of the appeal.
You've Got Mail.
It's familiar in the way an old sweatshirt is familiar. Comfortable. Predictable. Safe in a way that doesn't demand anything from me. Mine.
I'm smiling at a line I already know—something about a bouquet of sharpened pencils—when I sense movement behind me, somewhere in the hallway that leads from the main stairs.
Arthur pauses near the edge of the room, just outside the soft circle of lamplight. I can feel him there before I see him, like the air changes density when he enters a space.
When I look over at him, his eyes are on the screen.
He watches for a moment. And I watch him watching for a moment longer than necessary.
"The nut shop joke never gets funnier," he observes. His voice cuts through the quiet.
I glance back at him over my shoulder, surprised enough that I shift against the cushions. "You've seen this?"
He hesitates. Just a fraction of a second. "It was Catherine's favorite."
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn't need to. That one short sentence was enough.
"Oh," I say, and then, "she sounds really special."
"She was," he says. Simple. Certain. Final.
I pat the empty space on the couch beside me without thinking too hard about it. "You can sit, if you want."
The gesture feels strangely intimate in this cavernous room, with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan chatting away on screen, oblivious to my sudden awkwardness.
I leave my hand there.
He looks at the couch. Looks at me.
Then shakes his head. "I'm fine."
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those dark eyes. It could be hesitation. Or simply the efficient calculation of a man who doesn't waste movements or time on unnecessary social niceties.
Like old nineties movies.
He heads into the kitchen, the soft padding of his expensive shoes fading against the hardwood. I tell myself that's what I expected.
This is Arthur.
He doesn't drift into moments like normal people. He calculates them, weighs their value, determines their purpose with that brilliant, analytical mind of his.
I've seen him do it in business meetings often enough to recognize when I'm being assessed and politely declined.
I turn my attention back to the movie, but I'm more aware now.
The quiet stretches between the living room and kitchen.
The empty cushion beside me seems to mock my casual invitation.
