Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Lindsay
I'm curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket pulled up to my chin, the kind of position my body finds without consulting my brain—knees tucked, feet hidden, one arm draped over a throw pillow I'm not even using.
The living room is dim except for the glow of the television, and the movie is one I've seen so many times I don't need to look directly at the screen to know what's coming next. I could probably recite half the dialogue if pressed. Which is part of the appeal.
You've Got Mail.
It's familiar in the way an old sweatshirt is familiar. Comfortable. Predictable. Safe in a way that doesn't demand anything from me. Mine.
I'm smiling at a line I already know—something about a bouquet of sharpened pencils—when I sense movement behind me, somewhere in the hallway that leads from the main stairs.
Arthur pauses near the edge of the room, just outside the soft circle of lamplight. I can feel him there before I see him, like the air changes density when he enters a space.
When I look over at him, his eyes are on the screen.
He watches for a moment. And I watch him watching for a moment longer than necessary.
"The nut shop joke never gets funnier," he observes. His voice cuts through the quiet.
I glance back at him over my shoulder, surprised enough that I shift against the cushions. "You've seen this?"
He hesitates. Just a fraction of a second. "It was Catherine's favorite."
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn't need to. That one short sentence was enough.
"Oh," I say, and then, "she sounds really special."
"She was," he says. Simple. Certain. Final.
I pat the empty space on the couch beside me without thinking too hard about it. "You can sit, if you want."
The gesture feels strangely intimate in this cavernous room, with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan chatting away on screen, oblivious to my sudden awkwardness.
I leave my hand there.
He looks at the couch. Looks at me.
Then shakes his head. "I'm fine."
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those dark eyes. It could be hesitation. Or simply the efficient calculation of a man who doesn't waste movements or time on unnecessary social niceties.
Like old nineties movies.
He heads into the kitchen, the soft padding of his expensive shoes fading against the hardwood. I tell myself that's what I expected.
This is Arthur.
He doesn't drift into moments like normal people. He calculates them, weighs their value, determines their purpose with that brilliant, analytical mind of his.
I've seen him do it in business meetings often enough to recognize when I'm being assessed and politely declined.
I turn my attention back to the movie, but I'm more aware now.
The quiet stretches between the living room and kitchen.
The empty cushion beside me seems to mock my casual invitation.
A few minutes pass in the quiet. I hear the subtle sounds from the kitchen—the faint clink of a glass being set down on granite. Footsteps approaching with that measured pace that's distinctly his.
When the couch dips beside me, I can't help but look over at him. He’s carrying a bowl of popcorn, steam still faintly rising.
I hadn’t realized I'd been hoping he'd come back.
He looks strange, balancing the bowl of popcorn on his knee, the expensive cushions adjusting to accommodate him, the scent of fresh butter wafting between us.
He sits on the opposite end, leaving an ample amount of space between us—enough to maintain that invisible boundary he draws around himself.
His presence changes the atmosphere of the room, like someone just adjusted the lighting or turned up the volume on something I can't quite identify.
I don't look at him directly again. I don't need to.
I can sense him there in my peripheral vision, tall and composed, probably sitting with that perfect posture.
We settle into watching in comfortable silence for several minutes. The movie continues its familiar rhythm, Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan navigating their complicated dance of email romance and real-world antagonism.
On the screen, Joe Fox is explaining his "American family" to Kathleen.
Then Arthur murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it, almost to himself, "Catherine loved that line."
His voice carries something I rarely hear from him—a softness, a vulnerability that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
I smile, even though the moment on screen isn't particularly funny. "She had good taste."
There's a beat after that. An opening. I take it.
I tilt my head slightly, glancing at him from the corner of my eye. "Can I have some popcorn?" He looks down, then shifts closer, setting the bowl between us—close enough that I can reach.
He's watching the screen, but there's something distant in his expression, like he's seeing more than just Meg Ryan's perfectly tousled hair and Tom Hanks' earnest charm.
"It does take a special kind of woman to marry you," I say, my tone light and deliberately teasing.
I add a playful wink.
He turns to give me a flat look, those dark eyes narrowing slightly in that way that would probably intimidate most people. “That's enough,” he says. “No more commentary.”
But there's no heat in it. No real edge or warning.
And he doesn't move away.
If anything, I catch the corner of his mouth twitching, like he's hiding a smile and not doing a particularly good job of it.
For Arthur Dupree, that's practically the same as laughing out loud.
I adjust how I'm curled up on the couch, so I can more easily look at his face.
The bowl is still between us. I dip my hand in and grab a small handful.
Our shoulders don't touch. Our legs don't brush.
But the space between us feels different now. Charged in a way I don't examine too closely.
And the movie plays on.