He ended the call before the girls finished saying goodbye.
I placed the knife on the cutting board.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Noah.”
“Leah made a joke.”
“What kind of joke?”
He rubbed his temple.
“A stupid one.”
“Did it hurt you?”
“No.”
I answered too quickly.
He pushed himself upright.
“I need the bathroom.”
I watched him cross the room.
His gait remained careful, but his shoulders had gone rigid. He disappeared down the hallway without looking back.
The silence followed him for the rest of the evening.
He helped make dinner but spoke only when necessary. He ate half his food. When I asked what he wanted to do over the weekend, he said it didn’t matter. When I suggested walking to the end of the dock if the weather cleared, he gave me a distant maybe.
His speech worsened as fatigue accumulated.
Nothing dramatic.
A missing word. A slowed answer. The small signs I had learned to recognize before he did.
Whatever Leah had said had cost him more than he intended to admit.
After dinner, we sat on the couch with a bowl of popcorn between us.
A baseball game played on television.
Noah watched without reacting to the score.
“What did Leah say?” I asked.
His gaze stayed on the screen. “I told you it was nothing.”
“And I am telling you it changed the entire evening.”
His jaw tightened.
For several seconds, I thought he would refuse again.
