I nod and follow her instructions. Her kitchen table is too small to set with serving dishes, so we always leave them on the countertops and fill our plates there. Stevie told me that when the weather is nice, she likes to have her friends and family over for meals, and they will sit outside at the picnic table. She said she likes to go all out for those dinners, and that she has an assortment of tablecloths and taper candles and dishes she keeps in the shed out back for just that purpose. When she described it to me, I wanted nothing more than to be here on the first warm day in spring, around her table with her friends and family, sharing a meal that she made and I did my best to help with.
But there’s no point in wishing for things we can’t have. So I was determined to just enjoy the time we did have. It seems I’m going to have to work harder than usual tonight.
The entire Airstream smells of cooked meat, fresh herbs, and roasted vegetables overpowering the Christmas tree candle. The spread is lining every spare inch on the counters, and my stomach rumbles loudly as I look at it.
“Ready to eat?” Stevie asks wryly.
“Please.”
“Dig in.” She motions at the meal, but I shake my head.
“You go sit, and I’ll serve you.”
She blinks, surprised. “I can get it.”
I laugh. “I know.” She stands beside me for another second, but I nudge her shoulder with mine, ignoring the way my skin prickles at the contact. “Go on.”
She finally sits at the table, but I feel her gaze heavy on me as I make our plates.
“How are you feeling about Wednesday?”
I swallow, throat tight. “Okay, I think.” Then I shake my head and look over my shoulder at her. “Nervous as hell.”
She gives me a soft smile, the candlelight flickering in her dark eyes, making them appear almost black. “That’s fair.”
I’m starting the drive before sunrise tomorrow, but I won’t make it to Montana until Wednesday night. It will be two long, grueling days of travel, but I didn’t want to leave tonight. I wanted to enjoy every last second with Stevie.
“Did you decide what you’re going to do about your next contract?” she asks as I pick up our plates and cross the small distance to the table, serving hers first before setting mine down and sliding into the seat behind it.
I shake my head, and pick at a knot in the wood on the table. “No, I think I’m going to wait until after Thanksgiving. See how things go, how I feel.”
When she doesn’t respond, I lift my eyes to hers. Her gaze is intense, full of understanding. “I get that.”
A breath heaves out of me, and my heartbeat slows in my chest. I’ve been avoiding thinking about Montana, about everything that waits for me there, but I know when I’m alone on the road for two days, the anxiety is going to catch up to me, overwhelming.
“Let’s eat,” I say, not waiting to think about tomorrow or the weeks after.
We dig into our food, and I let out a frankly indecent moan at the first taste of the Beef Wellington. It prompts an outright laugh from Stevie, and I can’t help the way the sound of it pullsmy lips up in a smile. She’s not a loud laugher. She mostly deals out smiles or small chuckles, but when she does laugh, it’s musical.
“Did you end up going to book club last night?”
Her smile disappears, replaced by the almost sad look she was wearing when I arrived. “Yeah, I did.”
“How was it?”
Two nights ago, she refused to watch TV, saying she had to finish the book they were reading for club that month and told me to find something to read too. I dragged my fingers along the books on her bookshelf, and finally picked one with a green spine. I set it up on my knees, on the opposite side of the sofa from her, but I ended up getting distracted by her awayway, watching her read. Her eyes moved across each page at lightning speed, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. When she finally let it go, there were indents from her teeth pressed deep into the flesh, and it took every ounce of self-restraint in my body not to reach over and run my thumb over them.
“It was—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head as she runs the tip of her finger over the stem of her wine glass. “It wasn’t the same.”
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes lift to mine, intense and so sad that it makes my stomach clench. “I don’t know. I guess I just feel like my life has been standing still for so long, and when I was there, seeing how much they’re all moving forward—moving on—it reminded me of that. I think maybe that’s why I stopped going before. Subconsciously.”
The feeling in my stomach sours. Because I’m just another person in her life moving on, and I feel sick about it.
“I’m sorry, Stevie.”
She shrugs. “It’s fine. I think I just need to figure some stuff out.”
