Page 40 of Wreckage and Rain
“I watched her do it. And you covered her hand with yours.”
“It was nothing.”
“You didn’t even think before you did it.”
“That’s because it didn’t mean anything.”
“To you.”
His jaw tightens.
“To you, it was nothing. That’s what scares me. Touching her has become so normal that you don’t even notice when you do it.”
“I don’t touch Cheyenne.”
“You held her hand.”
“For two seconds.”
“You remember how long?”
His mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
“At The Butcher Block,” I say.
He looks away.
“A few weeks ago, I saw you through the window. The wine. The candle. Her hand on yours.”
“That was a working dinner. We already talked about this.”
“No. You explained it until I was tired enough to stop asking.”
His eyes snap back to mine.
“I came inside. I sat at that table with you. I watched both of you forget what you had supposedly been discussing. I watched her pull herself together the second she saw me. I watched you realize you’d told me you were at the office.”
“I told you I handled that badly.”
“You told me nothing happened.”
“Because nothing did.”
“You lied to get there.”
The room goes still.
“I didn’t lie to get there.”
“You told me you were staying at the office when you already knew you were leaving for dinner with her.”
“It was still work.”
“It was still a lie.”
He stands.
