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Charlotte whispered something under her breath.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She smiled. “Just praying for patience. I still haven’t learned to speak this caveman language that you’re so fluent in.”
“Maybe that’s why I do it,” I said.
Her gaze sparked.
Every so often, I did it just to get this reaction out of her. Because when I did, our eyes would lock for about ten to fifteen seconds. Just like they were now.
I leaned forward, to see what she’d do.
Charlotte took another quick sip of her beer, and a drop clung to her bottom lip when she set the bottle down. The pink of her tongue appeared, licking at the drop. I sat back in my seat with a hard swallow.
I stared at the plans on her screen, then picked up the paper version that we’d been marking up all week.
“These are good,” I said. “I don’t think we need to change anything.”
“You sure?”
“I am quite sure that if I’d known the domino effect of changing the kitchen, I never would’ve said anything, yes.”
She rolled her lips together to hide her smile. Then she shook her head.
Charlotte stood from the table, gathering the final, clean version of the plans that she’d printed off at Daphne’s. “Liar,” she whispered toward my ear.
Under the table, my fists clenched.
When she disappeared into her bedroom to get her purse, I closed my eyes and blew out a slow, controlled breath.
“Let’s take your truck,” she said as she came out of her bedroom. She’d pulled on a nicer shirt, something black and fitted, with a deep V-neck. Her lashes were coated in black and looked longer than normal.
You look nice,I wanted to say.
But she always looked nice. Even when she was sleep rumpled in the morning and came out of the room with pillow creases on her face.
She looked nice when she was hauling pieces of furniture out of the house. Or cleaning parts of the yard.
She looked nice when she was curled up on the couch underneath that hideous crocheted monstrosity we fought over.
So I didn’t say anything. The words felt like they’d drop heavily and create an awkward shift in our relationship that I wasn’t sure would be welcome. I swallowed them down.
I don’t think you even notice when I look different.
Angela had told me that one Sunday when I was leaving the house for a game. She’d cut her hair. Colored it or something.
And the worst part was that she wasn’t wrong.
I hadn’t noticed. And by the time we crossed our fifth anniversary—the last one we shared—I would not have said anything even if I had. Even when I did compliment her, it wasn’t said in the right way. With the right tone.
It became easier to say nothing at all. To keep my attention where I wasn’t a constant disappointment—on the football field.
Oblivious to the path of my thoughts, Charlotte started digging through her canvas tote bag, pulling out one item after another.
“How the hell do you fit all that stuff in there?”
She grinned. “Magic.”
