Tiny lay in the middle of the kitchen floor, duck trapped between his paws, blocking every efficient route available.
“Your dog is a speed bump,” I said, stepping over him for the third time.
“He’s supervising.”
“He’s drooling on a duck.”
“Management style varies.”
I moved around Tiny, forgot the cabinet door was open, and clipped my shoulder on it.
“Fuck.”
Declan turned. “You okay?”
“Cabinet attacked me.”
“You opened it.”
“Victim blaming.”
He came over anyway, checked my shoulder with two fingers, then shut the cabinet. “One task at a time.”
“I was doing one task.”
“You were carrying plates, watching Tiny, talking, and thinking about Olivia.”
I hated that he was right. “That’s invasive.”
“That’s observation.”
“Still invasive.”
His hand stayed on my shoulder. “Set the plates down. Then get the glasses.”
Simple. Clear.
I did it, and the buzzing under my skin eased.
Dinner was chicken and vegetables over rice, which tasted better than anything that healthy had a right to taste. We ate at the island because the dining table felt too formal and maybe too married. Tiny stationed himself beside my stool and rested his chin on my thigh, leaving a wet patch on my jeans.
“No,” Declan said without looking up.
Tiny sighed with theatrical despair.
“I didn’t give him anything.”
“You thought about it.”
“I think about a lot of things.”
“That’s the problem.”
After dinner, I helped clean because standing still made my head louder. Declan washed. I dried. Tiny murdered the duck in the living room with squeaks that became increasingly deranged.
My phone buzzed twice on the counter.
My whole body reacted before I touched it.
