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Then he turns for the kitchen, carrying Matthew’s plate away.
Matthew looks to me for backup, but there’s no way I’m jumping into the ring on his behalf.
“I get it loud and clear,” Matthew shouts with a laugh and a shake of his head.
Then he drains the last of his wine and pushes to stand. “Elizabeth, walk me out?”
I do as he asks, though I want to make it a quick goodbye so I can hurry back into the kitchen and help with cleanup.
“Thank you so much for connecting me with Nadiya. It’s all so exciting, even if nothing comes from it.”
He shrugs into his jacket. “It will,” he says, full of confidence before he leans in and kisses my cheek. “I’ll text you later this week. Maybe we can grab dinner or something.”
I hear dishes clang in the kitchen, so I agree quickly as I start to walk backward. “Yes, let’s do it.”
Walt’s already at the sink with his back to me, scrubbing away at dishes with a sponge when I hurry into the kitchen.
“Here, let me,” I say, touching his forearm to get his attention.
His muscles flex under my hand and I jerk away quickly, immediately regretful that I’ve touched him.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
“But you made dinner and it must have taken forever. It was really good. I meant to tell you that while we were eating, but Matthew wouldn’t stop talking for half a second.” I laugh.
He doesn’t respond and he doesn’t relinquish the sponge, so I try to take it from him.
“I said, I’ve got it.”
I tense at the sound of annoyance in his voice, stepping back and dropping my hands.
There’s deafening silence, and then he reaches for another plate and dismisses me with a flat, “Good night, Elizabeth.”
Unsure of what else to say, I retreat back to my room, happy to be behind my closed door so there’s no fear of him seeing how upset his mood has made me.
God he’s infuriating.
The antithesis of his brother.
With Matthew, it’s sunshine and happy days. With Walt, it’s the opposite. I thought we were slowly building toward a friendship, and if not that, then at least a mutual respect for one another.
Tonight, it’s as if the last few days never happened. Like we’re right back at square one, and that thought is driven home even more over the next few days.
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, he works so late I don’t even catch him before I go to sleep. His absence makes our interaction on Monday seem to grow even more menacing, as if, left on their own, my weeds of insecurity are growing completely out of control. I start to wonder if he’s annoyed with me for anything and everything. Maybe I’m leaving too much of a mess in the kitchen after I make breakfast, so I make a point to get it spotless before I retreat into the library to work. Maybe he wants me to write another check for the rug, so I leave one on his desk even though it pains me to take money out of my savings. Maybe he’s annoyed I’m not contributing to groceries, so I make sure to pick up some essentials at the store on Thursday evening. I make warm chocolate chip cookies and leave them out with a note for him to eat as many as he wants. I pick up flowers from a shop around the corner from the apartment to spruce up the table in the entry gallery. The next morning, I find he’s moved the vase into the library.
Friday, I catch him for a brief moment when I get home from a yoga class. My body was starting to hate me for all the hours I’ve been spending in front of my easel. Aches and pains were growing aches and pains of their own, so I decided to try out a place with rave reviews.
The studio was heated, so by the time the class was over, I was sweating from head to toe. Add on to that my brisk walk back to the apartment, and I’m desperate to yank off my jacket and scarf the moment I step out of the elevator. I don’t even make it past the entryway before I strip down to my sports bra and leggings, and the moment my outer layers are piled at my feet, I look up to see Walt staring at me from the other end of the hall.
Oh Jesus.
“I’ll pick everything up,” I say sheepishly, assuming that’s why he’s staring at me with such a harsh expression.
He probably assumes I leave my things wherever I like and let the cleaning people pick them up later, but I don’t. Never.
As if to prove my point, I bend down right then and start to gather up my belongings. When I’m done and I glance up, Walt’s not standing there anymore.
