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She peers at me through narrowed eyes, her expression equally serious and playful. She looks at me knowingly. It scares me sometimes how much you can understand the person you’re sharing a life with and also not. “You haven’t even bothered to get to know him.”
This is truly an Eve thing to say. As though all of our problems could be solved, if only I could play nice and make friends. Lifting my whiskey, I take a swig. “He’s here for work. I’m afraid we haven’t had a lot of time for chit-chat.”
“George,” she says, a hint of warning in her voice. “Please.”
“What?” I place the glass on the table and then hold my hands up, palms facing her.
“Please don’t let your pride fuck this up.”
The following afternoon, once again, I find Eve at the kitchen table, Liam sitting across from her. He hasn’t mentioned yesterday’s conversation, nor did I ask. Stretching on my tiptoes, I crane my neck, straining to hear what they are laughing about. I must lean the wrong way too quickly because the movement causes me to pull something in my neck. I curse myself for installing double-paned windows, for aging, for allowing him here in the first place. He says something to Eve and she smiles. I can see it in her eyes. She is smitten.
That night over dinner, Eve is different. Not low, but not high, either, and I can tell we’re thinking the same thing, wondering how long this is going to last. This morning, she put on makeup and curled her hair. The last time she did that was 486 days ago. I checked. It’s hard to look at her. Not because I don’t want to, but on account of my neck.
Joni left a bag of frozen peas out for me, to go along with my dinner. I press them against my forehead.
“How’s the book coming?” Eve asks, carefully picking at her dinner salad.
I stand and shuffle around the table, taking my peas and my dinner plate to the seat opposite of her. This way I can make eye contact. “It’s getting there.”
Her eyelids lower, her thick, dark lashes on display. Eve does not like to be lied to. “Why won’t you let him help? Isn’t that what he’s here for?”
“He is helping, clearly.”
“George.”
“What?”
“Answer the question.”
“I did…” Stabbing at a piece of ribeye, I stuff it in my mouth. “Did he say that?” I ask, in between chews. “That I wasn’t letting him help?”
“He didn’t have to.”
“Well, see…” I say, letting the fork fall onto the plate. “Then how can you know?”
“I know because he’s bored out of his mind, George. And he’s in love.”
“So?” Sometimes Eve tries to combine two ideas that make no sense.
Now she’s glaring at me like I’m the crazy one. “So. Don’t you remember what it’s like?”
Reaching for my spoon, I practically shove a pile of mashed potatoes into my mouth. “Hmmm.”
“To be in love, George. Remember?”
Eve expects everyone around her to see what she sees. This will be no different. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m trying to say—I’ve asked him to move in.”
I drop the spoon and look her dead in the eye, neck pain be damned. “You what?”
“I offered him the cottage.”
“Eve. You—”
“It’s not like anyone’s using it. He’s trying to help you.” She sighs heavily. “Can’t you see?”
Lifting my drink to my lips, I avert my gaze. “Who said I needed help?”
