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I soaked the pasta, cooked the peppers and onions, and fired up the meat, mixing everything together before popping it in the oven. After making a salad, I set the timer and pulled out the worksheet, reading the first question.
But then lights flashed, and I shot my gaze up, seeing a car turn into our driveway from out the window. Rain glittered in front of the headlights, and
I jumped to my feet, closing my books and piling my papers, stuffing everything into my bag.
Heat curdled my stomach.
Shit. Sometimes he pulled a double shift or got caught up with a matter or two, and I was blessed with a night without him.
Not tonight, it seemed.
I pinched my thighs together, feeling like I was about to pee my pants, and threw my bookbag into the dining room where we never ate. I quickly set the table, and as the front door opened, I spun around and pretended to fluff the salad.
“Emory!” Martin called out.
I couldn’t stop my stomach from sinking like it did every day, but I plastered a bright smile on my face and peeked my head through the open kitchen doorway and down the hall.
“Hey!” I chirped. “Is it raining again?”
Just then, I realized I’d left my grandmother’s window opened. Dammit. I’d need to find a minute to run and close it before it soaked the floor and gave him an excuse.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “’Tis the season, right?”
I forced a chuckle. Droplets flew everywhere as he shook out his coat, and I watched him hang it up on the coat rack and head down the hallway toward the kitchen, his wet shoes squeaking across the wooden floor.
I had to remove my shoes at the door. He didn’t.
I pulled my head back, straightening and blowing out a steady breath. Picking up the salad and tossing forks, I spread my lips in a smile. “I was thinking of going jogging around the village later,” I told him, setting the bowl on the table.
He stopped, loosening his tie and giving me the side-eye. “You?”
“I can run,” I feigned, arguing. “For a few minutes.”
He breathed out a laugh and walked to the fridge, taking out the milk and pouring himself a glass.
“Smells good.” He carried his glass to the table and sat down. “Is your homework done?”
His silver badge glinted under the light of the overhead bulbs, his form in his black uniform seeming to grow larger and larger by the second.
Martin and I were never close. Eight years older than me, he was already used to being an only child by the time I came along, and when our parents passed away about five years ago, he’d had to take care of everything. At least he got the house.
I cleared my throat. “Almost. I have some lit questions to double-check after dishes.”
I hadn’t completed them at all, actually, but I always embellished. It was like second nature now.
“How was your day?” I asked quickly, taking the pasta out of the oven and setting it on the table.
“It was good.” He served himself, while I doled out salads into our bowls and poured myself some water. “The department is running smoothly, and they offered to move me up to Meridian City, but I—”
“Like it clean and tidy,” I joked, “and Thunder Bay is your ship.”
“You know me so well.”
I smiled small, but my hand shook as I picked up a forkful of lettuce. It wouldn’t stop shaking until he left for work in the morning.
He dug into his meal, and I forced a bite into my mouth, the silence filling the room louder than the sound of the drops hitting the windows outside.
If I weren’t speaking, he’d find something to say, and I didn’t want that.
