His face is as unreadable as ever, but his tone is overly patient. I hand him my e-reader so he can see the book. It’s a popular suspense novel.
“Steve really liked it and thought I should read it.”
“How is it?”
“It’s okay. Steve liked it because the plot is intricate and clever. And it is. But I read for characters rather than plot, and it’s hard to like any of these characters. Have you read it?”
“Nah. I haven’t had much time to read recreationally for the past year. When you’re reading as your primary work, you gravitate toward other forms of relaxation. Do you read a lot of fiction?”
“Why?”
He rolls his eyes at me. “Do I have to face this same interrogation every time I ask you a question? My answer is always going to be the same. I’m interested. Plus I’m trying to figure you out.”
I groan as I set down the e-reader on the couch beside me. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so defensive. I’m just not used to people poking at me, trying to get inside.”
“I can see that.” His mouth is perfectly sober, but his eyes seem to be silently laughing. “I really think people have gone along with your attempt to keep them out for far too long. Someone should have been poking a long time ago.” Before I can respond to that outrageous claim, he continues, “Anyway, I asked you a question you never answered. Do you read a lot of fiction?”
“Yes. When I read, I always read fiction. Does that surprise you?”
“A little. I sometimes find that computer types like you read to learn things rather than to understand the world. What genres do you like to read?”
“I read all kinds of genres. Whatever catches my eye.”
“What are some of your favorite books?”
I have a weird moment. One of those surreal moments when it feels like you can see yourself from outside your body. And in those few seconds, I realize I can either push Damian away completely and stay safe in my protected interior world or I can let go and let him in a little. After all, what could be the harm? He’s going to keep asking questions, and he’s just asking about books right now.
It seems silly not to answer them, and I don’t like to think of myself as a silly person.
So I respond to Damian’s question, and it leads to a longer conversation about books we’ve both read. After a while, he asks if I’ve eaten dinner because he’s getting hungry. Since neither of us has eaten, we go into the kitchen and make pasta and a salad. We talk more about books as we eat.
We’re still talking at ten in the evening when I realize it’s late.
I don’t know why, but it scares me. The fact that I’ve had such a long, enjoyable conversation with Damian. So I tell him I need to get to bed and I make my escape.
But I relive the evening over and over again as I try to go to sleep.
THE FOLLOWING EVENING, I wait until seven thirty to eat, vaguely wondering if Damian will return and we can share dinner again.
I want to. I haven’t consciously acknowledged it to myself, but down deep I know I do.
At seven thirty, a half hour after he returned yesterday, I realize what I’m doing and my whole body gets hot with embarrassment.
I don’t want to be this person. Someone who waits breathlessly for a man to return to make her happy. I’ve never been like that, and I’m not going to start now.
So I shake off the vague disappointment, and I make myself a sandwich.
At eight, he’s still not back, and I’m not going to hang around hoping any longer. I take a long bath with a book and a glass of wine. Then I brush my hair, brush my teeth, apply lotion, and put on a nightgown.
It’s early but I’m tired, so I figure I’ll just go to bed.
Damian is obviously working late today, which is just as well. I’ll see him tomorrow when we go to Charleston. I don’t need to see him today.
I return my wineglass to the kitchen and grab a bottle of water. I’m walking back to my room when I hear the front door opening. It startles me so much I stop abruptly and stare as Damian walks into the entryway, wearing gray trousers and a black crewneck. He looks even more tired than he was the