Chapter 13
Iwoke to the smell of smoke.
For one confused second, I thought the conservatory was on fire. Then I opened my eyes and found Nate's side of the bed empty, my dress on the floor and sunlight falling across a room I had never seen in daylight.
“Nate?”
“It's fine,” he called from the kitchen.
Smoke drifted through the open doorway.
I found him standing beneath the shriek of a smoke alarm, waving a dish towel with one hand and holding a blackened pan with the other. He'd put on his jeans but not his shirt.
“You can't see,” I said.
“I can see the fire.”
“An excellent minimum standard.”
I opened the window while Nate silenced the alarm. Two black pieces of toast smoked in the sink.
“I was making breakfast.”
“Were you angry with the bread?”
“My toaster has settings. None seem related to time.”
He handed me coffee in a WORLD'S OKAYEST DAD mug. Standing barefoot in his T-shirt unsettled me more than waking in his bed.
“I have a board call at eleven,” he said. “I can move it.”
“Don't rearrange your day around me.”
“You didn't ask me to make breakfast either.”
“Judging from the toast, that would've been useful.”
He put the butter down. “I know jokes are how you get out of a conversation, but I'd like to understand why moving a call has become a threat.”
The word embarrassed me. “It isn't a threat.”
“Then what is it?”
I looked toward the bedroom. My underwear hung from the corner of a chair. My phone sat on the floor beside the bed. I had arrived without an overnight bag, a toothbrush or any promise about morning.
Now Nate was clearing his calendar.
“I don't want to wake up three months from now and find we've built a life neither of us chose because we kept making small assumptions.”
His face closed. “I moved a phone call, Claire. I didn't put your name on a mortgage.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“That wasn't fair.”
“No, it wasn't. You came here. You said you wanted me. I believed that meant you might want to spend the morning too.”
“I do.”
“Then say that before you make me feel foolish for offering.”
He wasn't behaving like Bennett. That was the problem. I had punished him for a familiar behavior before waiting to see how it transpired.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I panicked.”
“I noticed.”
“Accept the apology gracefully.”
“I'm considering it.”
I took a piece of bread from the bag and slid it into the toaster.
“Don't touch the dial,” he said.
We watched the toaster as if it were a bomb. When the bread emerged golden, Nate looked personally betrayed.
“I used the same setting.”
“It sensed competence.”
He came up behind me, placed his chin on my shoulder and wrapped both arms around my waist.
“The board call stays at eleven,” he said.
“Good.”
“I'll walk you home after breakfast.”
“I can get a cab.”
His arms loosened.
I turned in them. “But I'd like you to walk me.”
“That's different.”
“I'm learning.”
We ate toast at the counter. Nate explained that Caleb had given him the terrible mug as a peace offering after six angry months during his parents' divorce. I told him about the elaborate surprise party I once organized for myself after Bennett forgot my birthday.
“That's the saddest impressive thing I've heard.”
“It was an excellent party.”
“I don't doubt it.”
At my house, we stopped beside the gate. Monday traffic moved along the avenue, and a neighbor across the street pretended not to watch us.
“I should warn you,” I said. “The summer supper is in two weeks. Bennett may believe he's still hosting it.”
“Do you want me there?”
“I don't know yet.”
He nodded, but disappointment showed before he looked down the street.
“You're allowed to dislike that answer,” I said.
“I do dislike it.”
“Thank you for not pretending.”
“I'm hoping honesty earns me better toast next time.”
“It might.”
He glanced toward the house. “For what it's worth, I don't need Bennett to see me. But I don't want to become someone who only exists when he isn't looking.”
The distinction stayed with me. After Nate left, I found Bennett's voicemail asking us to try counseling. I'd suggested it twice over the years. He'd said paying someone to teach married people to talk felt artificial. Now he wanted it because talking no longer guaranteed his preferred answer.
I deleted the message, then opened the door.
“Thursday,” I called after Nate.
He looked back.
“Can I see you Thursday?” I asked.
His smile came slowly. “Yes.”
I went inside and found a voicemail from Bennett asking if we could try counseling before involving attorneys.
For years, counseling had been the thing we might do when work slowed, after the holidays, before the next anniversary. I'd suggested it twice. Bennett said paying someone to teach married people to talk felt artificial.
Now he wanted an appointment because talking no longer guaranteed the answer he preferred.
I deleted it and showered.