“But maybe I could teach you a few dishes—just some standbys I think Annie would like.”
Her head was down as she talked.
“I don’t want to intrude or overstep—”
“I would love that,” Whit said, looking at her from across the table.
She looked up at him. She smiled. She had a very nice smile. And a very nice not-smile, for that matter. He just liked looking at her, whatever state her face was in.
They continued cleaning to the sounds of clinking glass and metal, until Merritt spoke up again.
“Whit, listen,” she said, in a tone that made Whit feel a bit like he’d expected solid ground where a hole turned out to be. What came next felt very important.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, pausing again, and Whit’s hand found the table below him for support. Should he interrupt her?Should he insist that he already knew, that he felt it, too, that he agreed?
Merritt looked to the ceiling, steeling herself, then shrugged as she said, “I think Ursula needs to die.”
What?
Oh. Oh, she was talking shop. He was thinking about her, and she was thinking aboutthe book.
“What?” he said, buying time.
“I know,” Merritt said, moving toward the kitchen with the plates. He followed.
“It sounds crazy, and I don’t really like the idea of killing off one of the two female leads, but we still have Christabel, and I just think it sort of makes sense with her character arc. I think she should die saving Christabel and Rupert, in a final act of her own agency.”
Whit was struggling to catch up, but that didn’t inhibit his ability to tell that Merritt was making sense. She really got these books.
“You’re really good at this,” he said, and here he was, thinking aboutheragain.
She twisted the hot water handle at the sink and turned back toward him, surprised.
“Thank you?”
He stopped walking. They were perhaps three feet apart. He shrugged.
“You just are. And I think you’re probably right. That makes sense—it feels real. It feels true to the story.”
“It will be really sad,” Merritt said, her voice suddenly soft. Her eyes were searching his.
Whit nodded slowly and purposefully. “Sometimes sad is good.”
There was an apple pie in the oven and the smell was powerful. Steam from the sink was filling the air, and from beyond thekitchen, Whit could hear the sounds of a football game on TV and laughter from the card game.
Merritt shrugged. “True. I thought I might have to persuade you to do it.”
Whit cocked his head, and she kept talking.
“It’s just a big choice, you know, killing off one of the three core characters. There could be backlash, I don’t know. I thought you might need some convincing.”
“Merritt,” he said, his voice slightly hushed, “I don’t think you know how good you are. If it’s your idea, I like it.”
“Unless it’s a fairy tale allusion.”
Whit rolled his eyes, and she smirked. He took a single step forward. He could see her swallow.
“I mean it,” he said. “I trust you.”
