Written in the Scars(49)

Softening quicker than I anticipated, I choose to give in. Just for a little while. It’ll end in an argument, anyway.

“Can I take you to dinner?” he asks.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I throw my hands up in the air and head towards the house. “I’m going in to eat leftovers. You can come if you want.”

“Only if you come first,” he chuckles.

I hear his footsteps behind me, and I smile all the way to the back door.



TY

I follow her inside and into the kitchen. She never looks at me over her shoulder, never really acknowledges that I’m here.

She does this every time she’s mad. It’s her version of the silent treatment, although she’s not usually completely quiet. She’ll answer questions with a word or two, but she’s so easy to break. You can goad her right into a full blown conversation. I’ve often thought she would choose another form of being pissed if she knew just how damn adorable she was like this.

Slipping off her boots by the table, she heads to the sink to wash her hands. Just being in the same room with her, even if she’s not looking or speaking to me, is pretty damn close to heaven.

I figure the best way to go about this evening is to pretend everything is normal, that I’ve just come home from the mine and she’s pissed I moved the thermostat. Be natural. Normal. Married.

Opening the refrigerator, I’m pleasantly surprised to see a bottle of my favorite beer in the drawer on the bottom. She doesn’t drink this and I ponder the thought of why she kept it as I pop the tab.

I catch her looking at me as I bring the bottle to my lips. She rolls her eyes, knowing what I’m thinking, and I laugh, nearly choking on the brew.

“Move,” she huffs, bumping me with her hip.

I step out of the way and watch her rummage through the fridge. “So, what’s for dinner?”

“I have taco meat in here from a couple of days ago,” she says, pulling out a plastic tub.

“It’s not even Tuesday.”

She glares at me. “You are more than welcome to leave.”

I smile back. “Tacos are great any day of the week. Can I help?”

“Ugh,” she groans, marching by me. She goes about heating the meat in a skillet and getting out the toppings and shells.

I just watch her work. She seems angry, but it’s a front. The tremor in her hand as she cuts the lettuce is her giveaway. She’s trying to stay mad, but why?

“How’s your class?” I ask, sitting at the table.

“Good.”

“Dustin said you got him out of some trouble last week.”

“He was just going to take it,” she says, looking at me over her shoulder. “He didn’t do it and they weren’t going to look into it because they’d already tried and convicted him in their minds. But I marched him back in the office and had a sit down with the Principal, the tapes were reviewed, and his name was cleared.”

“One of the many reasons I love you.”

Her hand stills mid-chop.

“You know what we need?” I ask, trying to keep her relaxed. “A puppy.”

“We do not need a puppy, Ty.”

“Think about it. When I’m at work, it would keep you company. You could take it on your walks and—”

She turns around and leans against the counter.

“We aren’t getting—”

“A puppy,” I cut her off. “Let’s run up to Terre Haute this weekend and check the pound.”

“Ty,” she whines, clearly frustrated.

“What, baby? Would you rather have a kitten?”

She tosses the knife on the counter and sighs. “This was a bad idea.”

“Well,” I say, smirking, “if you don’t want a pet and want to go straight for the baby, I’m game to try. Just come over here.”

In a flash, her back is to me. Her shoulders are stiff, her spine ramrod straight.

Without thinking, I get to my feet and cross the kitchen and stand behind her. “What did I say?” I ask, letting my hand rest on her shoulder. She nearly jumps at the contact.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, I said something, but I don’t know what.”

She blows out a breath and shakes my hand off her shoulder. Busying herself with dinner, she leaves me standing while she takes everything to the table.

Our eyes never meet, our bodies never touch. There’s an awkwardness that’s wedged itself between us that I can’t budge. Only when she’s sitting at the table does she look at me, still standing where she left me at the stove.

“You coming?” she asks.

I sit across from her and watch her make her plate. “Elin, whatever I said, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”