Page 71 of The Bet
I set down the tray, careful, and rest my hands against the edge of the table. I keep my eyes on the napkins, smoothing the creases flat, but I can feel the heat of his attention, the way it tunnels through the space between us.
He’s the first to speak, his voice low and even, the way you’d talk to a skittish mare.
“How was your summer, Andie?”
It takes me a moment to find the words, and when they come, they sound like someone else’s. “Good. Busy. Work, mostly. But I started a writing class.” I don’t look up. “It’s been great.”
He nods, as if this is the answer he expected, but there’s something unsettled in his eyes, a storm barely kept off the shore.
He says, “That’s good.” Pause. “I’m glad.”
I toss another soiled napkin into the linen bag. “How have you been?”
He doesn’t smile. “Productive.” He taps a finger on the table, just once. “It’s strange. Every time I take on a new project, I think it will be different. But it’s always the same.”
There is so much silence in the room that the flickering candles sound like a clock.
He asks, “What are you writing?”
I finish clearing the soiled linen. Then I look up, finally, and meet his eyes. “About things that hurt,” I say. “It’s the only thing I know how to write.”
There’s a beat, and his mouth opens, then closes. He looks away first, down at the glassware, his fingers tightening on the tablecloth until his knuckles go white.
He asks, “Do you need anything? Money? Help?” The words are soft, but not unsure.
I laugh, a sharp sound in the quiet. “Thanks, but no, I’m good. I won the bet, remember? I used the winnings to pay for my summer course. In fact, I was able to pay for the whole class upfront and even had enough left over to buy the books I need.” I watch his face as I say it, and something in his expression goes rigid, a slow flush blooming across his cheekbones.
He looks at me, hard. “That’s not what I meant.”
I shrug. “It’s whatImeant.”
For a few seconds, neither of us moves. The candlelight throws his shadow across the white linen, making his hands look monstrous, outsized, like they could crush the crystal in a single squeeze. He looks tired—really tired, the lines at the corners of his eyes deeper than before.
He says, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
I pretend not to understand. “Do what?”
He lowers his voice, the words barely carrying. “Pretend you don’t care.”
I feel something inside me twitch, coil tight, but I don’t let it show. I gather up a handful of empty glasses, the cool weight grounding me. I want to tell him that caring is the problem, that if I let myself do it, I’ll never be able to stop. That the only way I’ve survived the last two months without him is by shutting outeverything except the next five minutes, the next five tasks, the next tray of glasses.
Instead, I say, “It’s late, Thomas. I need to finish up.”
He straightens, stands back from the table. For a second, I think he’s going to walk away, but he doesn’t. He circles around the end of the buffet, moving slow, deliberate, like he’s approaching a wild animal.
When he’s close, he reaches for my arm. He doesn’t grab, just touches—his hand big and warm on my wrist, thumb circling the bone, the way he used to do when he wanted my attention and nothing else.
He says, “I want to talk. Alone. Please.”
I look at him, at the tired set of his mouth, the way his eyes are more blue than I remembered. There is something raw in the way he holds me, not the hunger I expect, but rather need, or maybe regret.
I say, “I’m working.”
His grip tightens, but not hard. “After then. I’ll wait.”
The word hangs there, charged, and for a second I want to say no, to walk away, to leave him standing in the dying candlelight with the ghosts of all his choices.
But I don’t.
