Page 67 of Hate You More

“This doesn’t feel too weird, though, right? You and me, eating a meal. Drinking some wine.”

“Being civil?” I pull a face as I pinch my thumb and forefinger together.

He gives a quiet laugh, then turns back to his plate. I go back to rice chasing. And overthinking. Which I then make the mistake of swapping out for watching him. Secretly.

There’s something about the sandy rasp of stubble on his cheek that contrasts so well with his white shirt / dark pants combo. Something about it that creates a little flicker in my belly. I can’t work out if it’s evolutionary—the sight of the caveman, back from his hard day of woolly mammoth murder—or if I just have a thing for men who exude a certain kind of rakishness.

Or maybe I just have a thing for him.

I sit straight in my seat, the fork falling from between my fingers.

I cannot be into Troy Templeton. The stakes are too high.

I just won’t allow it!

“You good?” He angles his curiosity my way.

“Yes, fine.” No problem at all. I’m just literally losing my mind. “Back spasm,” I add, feigning a twinge. “I think we need to go to bed. And you’ll have to pull out.”

“Say again?”

Oh no. “I mean, I need to order a bed that I can pull out.” He’s already laughing, but I bluster on as though I haven’t noticed. “I was thinking I could put it in your home office. The bed. The pullout couch, I mean.”

Troy puts both elbows to the countertop, and his head in his hands, as his broad shoulders begin to shake.

“Would that work for you?” Why do I sound like Minnie Mouse?

His hand lifts like I need a minute. But that minute lasts a hundred years, and I die many, many painful deaths before he gathers himself. “Oof.” He sits up, gives a hiccuping laugh, then blows out a still-unsteady breath.

“Or even your closet,” I waffle. Like there’s any digging myself out of this. The closet, really? Who do I think I am—Harry Potter?

“The closet?” He looks at me as though I’ve grown another head. If he says “Harry Potter,” I will slap myself.

“It’s big enough. You have a lot of space in there. A lot of . . . things. Watches and stuff.”

“You have been snooping?”

“I was merely hanging up my clothes. I live here now, remember?”

“That’s not something I’ll easily forget.”

“Yes, well, the closer physicality is more than I’d bargained for myself.” Closer emotionally is absolutely not pending.

“Let’s not get into that again.”

“I wasn’t about to. Even if I don’t understand why we couldn’t just move into a hotel suite or something.”

“I don’t have to explain myself, Clara.” His barb is well aimed, and I fall quiet. Troy reaches for his napkin, wiping his fingertips as though he’d rather not look at me. “But maybe you can imagine,” he begins, his tone softer now, “after living with strangers and never quite feeling at home. After struggling to survive and worrying you might not make it, but then finding a home. And maybe then you can imagine how it’ll be for you after we’re done here. When you’ll move into your own place, and the door will close, and your shoulders will relax, and everything will feel right for the first time in a long while.” He puts the napkin down, his caramel-coffee eyes on mine. “Then maybe you’ll understand. There’s nothing more important than home.”

“Okay,” I whisper, avoiding his gaze. “I get that.”

He nods and turns, rising from his seat. And that’s the end of our first meal together as husband and wife. Good Lord.

We clean up in silence, but it’s a silence that feels very loud. Or maybe that’s just my brain. Then Troy says he has a little work to do in the office. I’m not sure if that’s true or if he doesn’t want to be around me, though I tell myself that’s none of my business.

At least I now understand his reasons for insisting on staying here. There is no denying his sentiments, but maybe I’m just more practically minded. Or it could be my previous privilege showing. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s right. That I can’t know how he feels because I’m still in survival mode.

After Troy leaves the room, I rub down his fancy sink and countertops, then resume my position on my stool and doomscroll through my phone for a little while. When it’s clear he’s not coming back, I switch off the lights and tiptoe past the closed office door. Might as well call dibs on the bathroom first.