he toes off his shoes, and I wonder if he’s thinking about Eaten Alive. Mr. and Mrs. Howard wouldn’t even make me sit for an interview; if I said I could move to Tenmouth, they’d give me a job without hesitating.
“I’m sorry. Demanding a minimum of five years’ experience is stupid. They miss out on so much talent by limiting themselves that way. It really is their loss.” I can’t help tearing up a bit at hearing such strong support from him. “If it cheers you up any, I stopped at the supermarket and saw a couple help wanted ads on the bulletin board.” He hands me two flyers. They’re for small, local businesses I’ve driven past but never patronized. Their parking spaces are always empty. They’re the sort of workplaces I know Nicholas thinks are set up to fail because they can’t compete against today’s big retailers, but he still took the time to bring them home to me.
I start to drift off toward the couch, wanting nothing more than to escape into a television show until my eyelids are so heavy I can’t keep them open, but he takes my hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Going to go make dinner. Come with me?”
I raise a mystified eyebrow at him. “Sure?”
He sends me a little smile that I return and doesn’t drop my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. What world am I living in, that now I’m holding hands with Nicholas to walk from one room into another? His grasp is confident and sure, the sort you’d want leading you through a crowd. “You’re a pretty good hand-holder, you know,” I tell him.
“Just reminding you of all the things your Dr. Claw could never do.”
Ahh, Dr. Claw. Evil villain of my dreams. With a limo, red suspenders, and a face like that (in the movie, at least), he could still get it even if he had two pirate hooks. “He’s still got his other hand.”
“Shh. I win.”
“Yes, Nicholas, you are much better than an Inspector Gadget character.”
Nicholas lifts his chin, mollified. In the kitchen, he tugs a chain that activates a strand of globe lights that run the perimeter of our ceiling, which casts a cheery ambiance. Then he taps a radio app on his phone and music infuses the room while he sifts through pans in the cabinet. “Where’s the—oh, here it is.” He twirls a frying pan and winks at me.
“What are we making?”
“Pecan pancakes.”
It’s barely dinnertime and the sky’s already black. If it weren’t for the glowing bulbs overhead that throw our reflections back at us in the windowpane, we’d be able to see the star-sprinkled forest. Familiar music wafts from his phone. Generationals. Our band. The song playing now is “Turning the Screw,” which I haven’t cued up lately because it reminds me of everything lovely that’s disappeared from our relationship. It’s been a while since we’ve listened to their music together. I wonder if he’s favorited this song before, or if he’s got it on a playlist. The thought of him listening to our band all by himself in recent times hurts my heart.
“Naomi.”
His voice is velvet. I don’t have to wonder if the choice of music is a coincidence, because I hear it in his deepened timbre. I see it in the feathering muscle in his cheek. I feel his atoms vibrating.
He looks sideways at me and my stomach drops. “Come here,” he says, extending a hand.
I walk over so slowly that he laughs. I marvel at the impossible softness of the sound, coming from him, directed at me; the quirk of his lips, the warm fire in his eyes. When my hand slides into his, I’ve never been so aware of another person’s physicality. All of my senses spike, picking out his details, the way he feels, smells, his body heat. He takes up the entire room.
Breathing becomes an effort.
The hand he doesn’t have laced through my fingers lightly grips my waist. The top of my head rests perfectly beneath his jaw, which makes leaning against his chest irresistible. I didn’t think we were the kind of couple that danced in a kitchen in the middle of the woods, but it turns out that’s exactly the kind of couple we are. Two months ago, we would have done something like this only if other people were watching. Putting on a show.
I never want this dance to end. He won’t let me press myself against him so that I can hide my face, gently