Page 41 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
Tears well up again, and this time I can’t hold them back. Uncle Peter pulls me more firmly into a hug, and I feel like a little girl again, seeking comfort after a nightmare.
* * *
The flowers are sitting in a vase on the kitchen counter when I get home, a sweet arrangement of yellow and white daisies and yellow roses, my favorite flowers and colors. It’s the third bouquet this week. Adam hovers nearby, watching for my reaction, with a hopeful look on his face. It’s become his default expression since our fight about the cruise. I smile and thank him, but inside I’m screaming: Where was all this effort when it actually mattered?
“I made dinner,” Adam announces, gesturing toward the oven. “Pot roast. I used your grandma’s recipe.”
“That’s sweet,” I say, maintaining my cheerful facade. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” He steps closer, his eyes searching mine. “Are you hungry?”
I nod, hanging my purse on the hook by the door. The apartment smells amazing, of roasting meat and vegetables and freshly baked rolls, and at any other time, this gesture would melt my heart. Now it just feels like a desperate attempt to patch a sinking ship with Band-Aids.
Adam pulls out my chair, pours me wine, serves the food with such careful attention that it’s almost painful to watch.
We’ve just gotten started when Adam’s phone buzzes on the table next to him. He picks it up and glances at the screen. His jaw tightens, and he slips it into his pocket, shaking his head as he does so. When it buzzes again a few minutes later, he takesthe phone out of his pocket and turns it off with a softly muttered curse.
“Better answer that,” I tell him with an amused expression. “Millie might get sad if you don’t.”
“She’ll live,” Adam mutters, cutting into his roast with slightly more force than was necessary.
“But Adam, how can you support her if you aren’t at her constant beck and call?” My voice is bright and cheerful, and Adam does not look amused.
“I’m not at her beck and call!” he snaps, and then he takes several deep breaths, bringing himself back under control. “I’d just like to have a nice dinner with you tonight with no interruptions, okay?”
“Sure,” I say with a shrug and dig into my food.
We eat in silence punctuated by his nervous attempts at conversation. How was my day? Did I see the news about the fight that broke out at the school board meeting? Isn’t this wine good?
I answer each question with bright, empty responses, watching his worry grow with each exchange. This new dynamic between us — him trying so hard; me pretending everything’s fine — feels like we’re actors in different plays accidentally sharing the same stage.
“I was thinking,” he says, setting down his fork. “About the cruise.”
“Oh?” I take a sip of wine, my smile fixed in place.
“Maybe I should stay home. We could make dinner together. Start making our own traditions.”
For a moment, a crack appears in my resolve. A small, desperate part of me wants to say yes, to believe this is the turning point where he finally chooses me. But I know better now. If he stays, it will be out of guilt. The resentment would fester in both of us, and in the eyes of his mother, I would alwaysbe the jealous shrew who forced him to abandon poor Millie in her time of need. And she’d never let either of us forget it.
“Don’t be silly,” I say, waving my hand dismissively. “Millie needs you there. I totally understand.”
His face falls, confusion replacing hope. “But I’m worried about us. Things haven’t been right since—”
“Since we moved here?” The words slip out before I can stop them, sharper than I intended.
Adam flinches. “I was going to say since I agreed to the cruise, but…” He trails off, studying me. “Is that how you feel? That things haven’t been right since we moved?”
I backpedal quickly, slipping back into my performance. “No, no. I’m just tired. Work was crazy today.” I reach across the table and pat his hand. “You promised Millie you’d be there. You should keep your promises. After all, she’s like a sister to you; she depends on you.”
He doesn’t look convinced. His eyes drop to my left hand, and I realize too late that I’m still not wearing my engagement ring. He gave it back to me the evening after our fight, but I wasn’t able to bring myself to put it back on.
“You’re not wearing your ring,” he mumbles.
I withdraw my hand. “Oh. I forgot to put it back on after washing dishes this morning.”
We both know it’s a lie. I haven’t worn it in days.
“Would you…” His voice catches. “Would you wear it again? Please? It would make me feel better.”
