Wild Swans - Jessica Spotswood Page 0,38

I curl up in Granddad’s armchair, tucking my bare feet beneath me. I’ve always liked reading out loud. Back in elementary school when our teachers used to ask for volunteers, I was always Hermione, waving my hand wildly. Connor’s ink-stained fingers fly over his keyboard. He seldom needs me to repeat myself, only asks me to spell out a few names, references to family or neighbors.

It’s not until I hear his stomach growl that I glance up and realize it’s almost one o’clock. I close the journal and set it aside. “Ready for a lunch break?”

“Yes. I’m starving,” Connor says immediately.

“Me too. And crazy thirsty.” My voice is getting a little husky. I stand and stretch.

“I could go home and come back in an hour, if that works for you.”

I walk to the french doors and look out. Rain’s been tapping steadily against the windows all morning. The Bay melts right into the misty sky. “You can stay if you want. We have leftovers. Roast chicken. I could throw together a salad.”

“You sure?” Connor asks.

“I wouldn’t offer otherwise,” I reassure him.

But that’s not true, is it? I say lots of things I don’t mean, especially lately. I’ve always prided myself on being forthright. Granddad raised me to speak up. But lately, it seems like when it really matters, I back off. Back down.

In the kitchen, I throw an empty wine bottle into the recycling bin. Load a sticky wineglass into the dishwasher. Then I notice that while I’ve been trying to erase any trace of Erica from the kitchen, Connor has been hovering.

“How can I help?” he asks.

I shake my head. “You’re a guest. You don’t have to help. Sit down.”

He shrugs. “I don’t mind. Grams took care of Ani and me a lot when we were kids, and she was big on us helping out around the house. Especially me. Said there was no reason a man couldn’t learn to cook, and she wasn’t going to let me be as useless as my grandfather.”

I grin. “I like your grams.”

He smiles as I hand him the cutting board and a knife. “She used to be a high school English teacher. She read to us all the time. And made sure we spoke properly. I got teased a lot when I was a kid for talking too white. But she’s the only one in my family who gets poetry. Who gets me.” My breath catches at the loss in his voice. I feel a rush of gratitude that, at sixty, Granddad is still sharp as a tack.

I turn on the radio, tuned to the oldies station that Granddad likes. Connor and I work side by side at the granite countertop, humming along to “Hey Jude.” I cut up the roast chicken and slice a few hard-boiled eggs; he chops tomatoes and peppers and onions. I throw together a quick vinaigrette—Luisa doesn’t believe in store-bought salad dressings—while he slices homemade bread. The only sounds are the rasp of his knife and the swish of my whisk and the patter of rain against the windows. It’s cozy. Companionable.

Or it would be if I weren’t hyperaware of his every move—the proximity of his hip to mine, his elbow to mine, the rise and fall of his breath. I find myself watching him out of the corner of my eyes, noting the steadiness of his hands. He smells like coffee again.

Does he notice when I lean over and my ponytail brushes his upper arm? Does he see the flush that spreads across my cheeks when I hand him the bread knife and our fingers touch? Is it totally obvious that I want to put down the kitchen utensils and push him up against the counter and kiss him senseless?

Why did I tell him that we shouldn’t kiss each other again?

I hand him plates and silverware, and he sets the table while I mix the salad. We’ve barely sat down to eat when the back door flies open. There’s a rush of rain and wind and—

Alex.

Alex stops just inside the door, his dark hair dripping. It reminds me of the night the power went out and I learned Erica was coming home. Was that only a week ago?

“I-I was just looking for Ma.” His eyes dart from me to Connor and back again.

“It’s Wednesday,” I remind him.

“Right. I forgot,” he says, and I wonder if this was just an excuse to come by the house. To see me. Apologize, maybe. His jaw tightens as he takes