Page 19 of Wreckage and Rain
“It was already on the table.”
“Her hand on yours?”
He goes still.
Only for a second.
But I see it.
“What?”
“I saw her touch you.”
“She reached across the table. It wasn’t anything.”
“She was leaning toward you like there wasn’t another person in the room.”
“She listens like that.”
“And you were laughing.”
He stares at me, confused now, as though that is the one accusation he can’t prepare for.
“Yes. I laughed.”
“Not with me.”
The words come out so quietly that I almost wish I could pull them back.
His face changes.
“Summer.”
“I haven’t seen you laugh like that in months.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes.
So I keep going, because now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.
“You come home and sit across from me with your phone in your hand. I ask about your day and get three words. I make dinner and watch you answer emails between bites. But tonight you were leaning across a table, telling her stories and laughing like you had nowhere else to be.”
His eyes drop.
“You looked happy.”
“I am happy with you Summer, I love you. I'm with you.”
“Then why do I never get that version of you anymore?”
The kitchen goes silent.
He looks exhausted. Not angry. Not caught.
Worse.
