… I don't correct her.
I should. The only honest answer isof fucking course we're not. But when she says it, I just… I dunno.
Isquirminside. A little involuntary squiggle of joy. And for as long as I'm squiggling like that, I'm picturing things, too. Another cabin, a new one. Wolf and maybe a little puppy friend for company. A warm fire. A woodpile that stays full because of the handsome, shirtless, bearded lumberjack of a husband swinging his ax in the front yard. A kitchen blessedly devoid of beans. A crib with?—
"We're not together."
Afon's voice is like a guillotine blade slamming into the chopping block.
Just like that, the squiggle dies.
Barb's smile falters. "Oh—I just figured?—"
"You figured wrong."
I look at him as hot tears suddenly fill my eyes.
But he's not looking at me. He's looking at Barb with that concrete-poured-over-the-face expression, the one I haven't seen since the morning he loaded me into the Bronco and drove me to that bench. Barb, bless her, just nods and says, "Course. None of my business. More coffee, hon?" and retreats behind the counter. When she's gone, the easy golden warmth of the room curdles.
I look down at my short stack. The maple syrup has gone tacky around the edges.
It shouldn't sting. It's true. We're not together. There's a story standing between us, and a wedding ring he won't take off, and a number in a phone he kept secret while I starved.
We are not, by any legal or technical definition,together.
I knew all that thirty seconds ago. But I still felt that stupid little flutter when Barb saidmarried, and now, I feel like an idiot, because of course Afon didn't feel it. He heardmarriedand reached for the nearest blunt instrument to murder that insane, inane fantasy. That's what he does, that's what he's done at every turn: He opens the door halfway and then slams it, kisses me senseless and then saysnot like this, holds my hand over the ring and then keeps a lifeline secret from me in his pocket.
We're not together.
No, Afon.
I suppose we're not.
I drink my coffee. It's gone cold and it doesn't taste like resurrection anymore.
Across the table, Afon shifts. I can feel him looking at me. I keep my eyes on my plate.
"Caroline."
"It's fine."
"That came out?—"
"It came out true. We're not together. You're right." I stab a fork into the cold pancake. "You're so right. We are two people who got snowed in. One of us is a former assassin and one of us is a domestic violence attorney from the Upper East Side, and we arecertainlynot together. I don't know what came over Barb, frankly, getting all carried away like that. People should mind their own business. It's honestly a little rude of her."
"Caroline, I?—"
"I said it'sfine, Afon. Drop it."
The worst part is that I mean it, mostly, I'm just also aware that there's a wet heat building behind my eyes that has nothing to do with thawing out, and I'd really rather not cry in the Hollow Diner in front of Barb and the random trapper-hat man on the best food day of my life.
Afon is quiet. He turns his mug a quarter rotation on the laminate. "I didn't say it to hurt you."
"I know why you said it."
"I don't think you do."
I look up at that. He's watching me with a guarded expression.
