“On the way to Port Ash,” I said. “We went for the weekend.”
“Why?”
“Anniversary.”
His gaze moved to the arm around my shoulders.
“What did we do?”
“Walked. Ate. Argued about directions.”
“Who was right?”
“Me.”
“You answered too fast.”
Leah laughed.
I felt something warm and dangerous awaken beneath my ribs.
Noah turned the page.
The photograph in the kitchen stopped him.
He stood behind me, chin on my shoulder, both hands folded across my chest. I was looking down at a bowl of dough. He was looking at the camera, smiling.
“Did we cook?”
“You cooked,” I said. “I provided criticism.”
“Was it good?”
“No.”
Leah snorted.
“It was edible,” I amended.
Noah touched the image.
“You look different.”
I did not know which of us he meant.
“How?”
His brow tightened.
“Less…” He searched. “Hard.”
The word hurt because it was true.
In every recent reflection, I looked carved from exhaustion.
“I was on vacation.”
He looked up at me.
