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I shrug. “It seemed fitting.”
She drags her hand lower. “Eternalizing your family emblem on your body?”
“It’s more than an emblem. Everyone in Corsica knows what it stands for.”
“Power?”
“I suppose.”
“And resilience?”
“That too,” I say, catching her hand before she reaches my cock. If she touches me now, I’m going to fuck her again, and she’s still raw from earlier.
“Am I intruding?” she asks with a coy smile that doesn’t mask her hurt.
I kiss her lips. “I’m not rejecting you, cara. I just don’t want to hurt you more.”
“I wasn’t making advances,” she says, flushing a little.
Sure. I smile. I like her like this. Greedy. Like how she was in the cave when she took everything she needed from me. Everything I owed her that day. The thought of the dark times that followed when she was in an induced coma in the hospital sobers me.
When we’re both wrapped in towels, I leave her to dry her hair while I go to the dressing room. As instructed, Fabien stocked the closet with a few new outfits in my size. I select warm fleece pajamas for Sabella and a T-shirt and sweatpants for myself.
Once we’re dressed, we go to the kitchen for dinner like a normal married couple. The only thing wrong with the picture is that the table is set for one.
“Sit,” I say, pulling the chair out for her.
She lowers herself into the seat with an air of uncertainty, as if she doesn’t know what to expect from me. There are many things wrong between us, things that can never be put right, but she tried tonight, and it’s only fair that I try too. How little effort it takes to be kind surprises me. Even more surprising is how much I’m enjoying behaving in this normal way with her. For once, I don’t have to deflect her jabs or animosity. When she doesn’t resist me so hard, I don’t have to treat her like the enemy she is.
My wife studies me from over the candle that’s burned down to half its size as I get two glasses from the cupboard and fill them with wine from the open bottle that stands on the counter.
I sit down opposite her, studying her as intently as she’s studying me, waiting for her to speak, to ask the question that burns in her eyes, because I’m curious about what that question is. She rubs her palms over her thighs, drawing my attention to the nervous action.
“Are you staying for dinner?” she finally asks.
The question isn’t posed as an invitation but rather as a need to clarify a fact.
“Would you like me to?”
She cocks a shoulder. “It’s your house. You’re free to do as you please.”
It’s true. Then why does the statement disappoint me? We keep on balancing on this thin edge, walking a tightrope between peace and war. I’m not ready for the ceasefire to end.
Opting for humor, I ask, “Is it poisoned?”
The corner of her mouth lifts, but she’s quick to wipe any traces of amusement away. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
In return, I offer her a full-blown smile. “I guess then I’ll see.”
She gets up and collects a plate and eating utensils from the cupboard that she carries back to the table. I drink in her graceful movements as she sets everything in front of me. It feels perfectly ordinary but also hugely eventful, like some kind of milestone. My first dinner cooked by my wife. Sure, she didn’t cook the meal for me. She had no way of knowing I’d be here. But I’ll take it anyway. I’ll own the gesture and make it mine, pretending if only for the sake of the odd warmth that spreads through my chest at the thought.
On her way to the oven, she shoots me another insecure look. “It should be cooked. I hope. The chicken has been in here for more than an hour.”
I can’t help another smile from stretching my lips. “I should think so.”
Enjoying the homely scene playing out too much, I don’t offer my assistance when she fits a pair of oven mittens. I’m too greedy for the normality of watching her serve dinner to break the trance by getting out of my seat.
She takes a casserole from the oven and places it on a cork plate on the table. A baking tray is next. Her nervousness is palpable as she sits down again. Her anxiety over a simple meal is touching. I find it adorable. I’m not arrogant enough to believe she wants to impress me. Her tenseness has more to do with embarrassment at failing this test, not that cooking should be a test.
