eyes are, he’d have a fifty percent chance of getting it right.” Blinking, I add with a grin, “And we have the same color eyes.”
James laughs at this.
“But I get what you mean,” I continue. “I remember when I first told my mom something was going on with my hand, and she was shocked like it was the first she was hearing of it. My handwriting was getting worse, and she’d say it looked the same as it always had. I’d be doing this,” I say, and hold up my arm in front of me, “my entire hand visibly shaking, and she’d say I needed more protein in my diet or more sleep. My dad was having some health issues, too, so she had a lot going on, but it wasn’t until my doctors sat her down and told her it was real and not going away that she really got it.”
“When did you first notice it?”
“I was nineteen. I’d always been able to draw, but around then my hand would get tired and crampy really soon after I’d start a sketch. I didn’t think much of it until I had to do something that required both hands—like helping Rusty put together a table or pin some upholstery to a chair—and that’s when I realized it wasn’t just fatigue from drawing all the time; there was something wrong. I started hiding my hands because they would spasm or clench up, waiting until I was alone to do anything that required small movements. Melly’s the one who noticed and insisted I see someone.”
James listens intently. “Melissa did?”
I nod. “I was pretty good at hiding it, but she noticed that I wasn’t eating in front of her.” At his confused expression I explain, “I drop pencils all the time—and that’s with regular Botox treatments. Imagine me holding a fork, at my worst.”
He winces.
“They’ve been great about it. I like to think no one else notices, really, because I’m not out in front of that many people. Then you came along and—”
“You didn’t want me to see.”
I feel my cheeks heat.
He sits back in his chair, going pale. “I teased you about your job.”
“We both teased each other,” I remind him.
“The first time I saw you in the studio,” he says, “I didn’t know what to think.” He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “I’m used to always knowing where I fit in, but it was pretty clear early on that the job wasn’t what I expected and I … I was embarrassed. And trapped,” he adds. “Resentful. I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think either of us was very nice,” I admit. “I liked rubbing it in. A lot.”
I can tell that he’s miserable, can practically hear him going over every one of our early interactions in his head. I’m about to tell him we have plenty of time to work out how he’s going to make it up to me and be my grateful servant for life when there’s a crash a few tables away. I know who it is without even looking over, and dread settles over me in a chill.
Rusty is pushed back from the table, the front of his clothes soaked from what I can only assume is a full glass of Melly’s sparkling water.
“Our son is a good kid,” Rusty says loudly. “You’ve just babied him so much he doesn’t know how to stand on his own two feet.”
She’s looking down at her nails, bored. A few other diners have turned around to see what all the commotion is about, and I’m out of my chair so fast it nearly topples over.
“Hi, friends!” I gush. “How are you?”
I reach for the napkin at Rusty’s feet and attempt to clean him up, groaning when I realize I’m aggressively dabbing at his crotch. “Did we have a little spill?”
Straightening, I put my flattened palm on his chest and push him back into his seat, handing him the napkin to sop up more of the water. “Let’s remember that there are eyes and ears everywhere,” I whisper through a clenched smile.
Melly ignores me to glare at her husband. “Our son can barely string two sentences together and has been in college for six years,” she whisper-shouts.
“He’s got ambition,” Rusty says, chin out. “Just like his dad.”
“He’s also got a beer belly,” she says with icy calm. “Just like his dad.”
Oh shit.
A half-empty bottle of Perrier sits near the edge of the table, and on impulse