Page 61 of The Clinch
It should calm me.
It doesn’t.
I turn the page without meaning to. A few minutes later, the kitchen goes quiet.
Soft footsteps approach. Liz drops onto the couch.
“What are you reading?” Her voice is light, but her eyes aren’t.
She leans in to catch the title, close enough that jasmine and coconut catch in my throat.
I angle the cover toward her.
Her brows lift. “Of course you’re reading an ancient Roman guy explaining that feelings are stupid.”
“It’s not about feelings.”
“Mm.” She points at the book with a look that says,sure. “The only Roman I can name is Mark Antony, and that’s only because of Cleopatra.”
“Low bar,” I say.
“Hey. I’m tired.” She reaches for the remote. “Movie instead?”
I don’t move closer. I don’t offer her a blanket. I don’t make it easy. Comfort will turn into something else with her, something she’ll call a mistake tomorrow.
“Sure,” I manage, setting the book down.
Liz tucks her legs under her, careful and contained, leaving a deliberate space between us.
She starts scrolling, and it quickly becomes obvious what she’s doing.
Rom-coms vanish. Anything with a couple on the icon goes next. Anything soft, intimate, or emotional disappears with a sharp flick of her thumb.
“Marcus Aurelius has nothing on you,” I murmur, amused.
“What?”
My mouth curves. “Just pick, Flash.”
After a few more rejects, she lands onSpartacus.
I lift a brow. “For real?”
“It’s on theme,” she says, nodding atMeditations. “Romans. So I can meet a few more besides... Caesar.”
“You said you only knew Mark Antony.”
“Exactly.” She points the remote at me, eyes bright. “I’m expanding my horizons.”
“Alright.Spartacus.”
She hits play. The screen goes dark, then fills with blood and sand.
For the next twenty minutes, men try to kill each other with impressive dedication. Liz drifts to the other end of the couchand sinks down with a long exhale. She rolls onto her side, head on a throw pillow, eyes on the screen even while her body gives out.
“I’m wiped,” she mumbles.
“Tough day?”
