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A slow smile spreads across his face. “I don’t mind if you scream.”
Goosebumps bloom down my arms, and I turn back to the shelf of vegetables in front of me like the Jolly Green Giant on the canned corn label will save me.
For an hour before Steven showed up, I felt a tingle on the back of my neck like someone was watching me. It was the same unease I would feel as a kid lying in bed in the dark, expecting a monster to crawl out of my closet any second.
“Besides,” he continues, “this isn’t my usual schedule. It’s not embarrassing at all that you were surprised. I got off early today.”
“Oh. Really?” I check my watch and realize Martha won’t be home for another two hours at least. “Lucky for you.”
“That remains to be seen.”
There’s something in his voice that is unsettling. Like he’s telling a joke that I don’t understand. Every word seems to put me further off balance, and I wish he’d get out of the pantry. It’s too small for the two of us to be in here together. If I extended my arm, my wrist would rest on his shoulder. We’d be in middle school dance position without even the space to sway in a circle.
I try to keep working, but my organizational system is falling apart now that half my attention is firmly snared on the man looming in the doorway.
“Did Martha ask you to do this?” he inquires.
“No. I just got tired of never knowing where to put the groceries when they get delivered.”
“That makes sense. It’s not like Martha is ever in here anyway. She doesn’t cook.” He isn’t wrong, but the way he says it feels aggressive.
“Busy lady,” I say, smiling fondly. “Martha has more important things to do than organize produce.”
“I hear that a lot.”
“What?” I ask.
“‘Martha has more important things to do.’” He leans against the door frame and sighs. “She works a lot of late nights and gets to the office before dawn. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for… well, for other things.”
I mash my lips together and nod. Actively bad mouthing Martha would be a terrible idea. Not only do I have nothing bad to say about her, but she’s his wife. Even if he’s upset with her now, they’ll make up. And when they do, I don’t want to be the maid who trash-talked his wife. That’s how you become the maid who got fired for trash-talking his wife.
“Life is like that sometimes. I get it. My daughter keeps me so busy. I barely have time to brush my teeth and get in bed at night.”
“You look good for an unbrushed woman,” he says.
It’s a normal compliment. Steven says this kind of stuff all the time. No biggie.
“Well, I guess I make time for brushing,” I say with a nervous laugh. “It’s the social activities and fun I miss out on.”
“I can’t believe you sit at home on a Friday night. The men in your generation have to be smarter than that. You have fun.”
“Only if you count grocery shopping and playing ten games ofCandylandin a row with a four-year-old as fun.”
“I don’t. A girl like you deservesrealfun.”
There it is again. The tone that sends a shiver down my spine.
This conversation keeps walking the line between ordinary and ominous, and the only thing I can chalk it up to is this room. The cramped space is making me claustrophobic. My fight or flight instinct is coming out for no reason.
“Don’t we all?” I shelve the last of the canned black beans and turn towards the door. “But there are more cans to organize and shelves to dust. I need to get back to work.”
Steven doesn’t make any move to budge from his spot in the door. In fact, he waves his hand. “Take a break. Like you said, we both deserve it.”
“That isn’t what I meant, exactly.” I smile, but it feels tissue-paper-thin.
“What did you mean then?”
His smile is gone now, replaced by something cold and sharp. His eyes drag down the length of me, and that feeling I chalked up to claustrophobia shifts into overdrive.
