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It feels so awkward as I compose myself so I don’t look like a tiny red ragey monster, then turn to lead him out of his office. It’s so weird, when before we’d been leaning on each other in front of the staff, walking arm in arm or hand in hand, but now I’m leading, with him trailing behind.
As I pass one of the sales guys at his workstation, I catch a little whisper I probably wasn’t supposed to hear.
“Somebody’s gone and pissed off the little missus ...”
“Can you blame her?” the woman next to him whispers back. “Marshall’s a cold fish.”
I flush with embarrassment.
I hate that even after the way he’s treated me, the instinct rises up to jump to his defense.
But I pretend not to hear their shit-talk.
The ride down the elevator is painful, both of us on opposite ends and staring up at the numbers. Getting in the Audi is worse. It’s small and cramped, and August has to adjust his seat to slide it all the way back so he’s not eating his knees with every speed bump.
As I pull out onto the street, I try to smile for my own sake—but it feels like it’s stitched on my face in rigid seams. The silence could choke a rattler, as Gran would say.
Good thing we’re not going far.
It’s midmorning, and there’s less traffic as we head to Alki Beach.
I park and reach into the back to snag the picnic basket. I try to pretend I’m alone instead of with a stiff wooden blockhead shadowing me as I march onto the sand in pumps that do not like sinking into the loosely shifting granules with every forceful step.
Look, I didn’t think parts of this through, okay?
But I’ve started this, so I’ll finish it.
I find a good spot where we can see the waves and the sea lions playing in the tide—but not too close that we might get chased off by one of the more aggressive beasties.
Determined, I set the basket down, rip the blanket off the top, and spread it on the sand before plunking down with the basket at my hip.
Honestly, it’s a barrier. So we can keep a little space from each other.
August stands at the edge of the blanket, looking down at it skeptically.
I point at the free space.
“Sit,” I command. “Eat.”
With another long sigh, August steps on the blanket and sinks down slowly to sit cross-legged. He keeps his eyes on his hands as he pulls off his polished dress shoes and shakes sand out over the side of the blanket.
“We’re here. You want to explain what the hell’s going on?”
I mutter under my breath, then dig out one of the wrapped sandwiches inside and thrust it at him. “We’re going to sit and eat lunch. That’s all. Capisce?”
He doesn’t say anything or take the sandwich.
He just sets his shoes down on the blanket, his long feet angular inside black dress socks, and looks at me strangely.
Eep.
I can’t do this if he’s just going to stare at me like I’ve got two heads, and not even let me use the pretense of eating to work my way up to what I want to say.
My hand on the sandwich trembles, and my outstretched arm starts to dip a bit.
Just take it, I plead silently, making myself watch him. Take it so we can pretend everything is fine for a few seconds. Just eat and relax and take the olive branch, call a truce.
But all he does is look at me.
