He’s a blank canvas.
“I try to keep my thoughts to myself these days. It seems to work out better for everyone,” I say quietly as I move past him to the sink to wash my hands. He leans back so that he can look at my face. His stare sends chills down my spine. He still has the ability to look at me and unnerve my thoughts, to unhinge my anger.
“I’ve been told that can cause serious problems,” he says and I try to stop myself from laughing. I feel him behind me, his chest pressing against my back. I close my eyes and think about how we were before, before all of this. When we were just us. He presses closer against me as his hands move on both sides of me and he washes his hands.
I’ve made up my mind. I won’t give him my body if he won’t give me the truth. He has my heart but I can at least deny him my physical self, no matter how difficult it is.
I move from in front of him and search through the drawers for the utensils we need. Without missing a beat, he’s pulls out a skillet and bowl. It’s quiet, eerily quiet, despite unspoken words blaring between us. I don’t think he and I have ever gone without talking this long, unless one of us was pissed off. I don’t think he is. I, however, am pissed but, more than anything, I’m hurt and still off-balance from everything that’s happened. Questions upon questions, unsolved mysteries, disconnected theories that want to burst out of me. I don’t voice them, though. I keep them confined in the pit of my stomach but they swirl around as dinner starts.
He does the hard part of the cooking. He makes the steak and the potatoes. I watch as he goes about doing what I now know he learned from Mrs. Scott. One thing that isn’t so much of a secret or a mystery like how it was before. I’ve tended to the spinach, which was easy.
“There’re plates in the cabinet over the sink. You want to put them on the table? I’m almost done. Your spinach is about to overcook, though.”
Shit.
I turn off the stove and, sure enough, there are dishes in the cabinets over me. I grab two of each and lay the dishes out on the table. A few moments later, he brings the food. For some reason, he seems more domesticated than he ever was years ago. After he puts the food out and I’ve made my plate, I quickly say a prayer. A habit I’ve picked up since eating dinner with the Scotts. When I open my eyes, I catch him observing me as if he’s absorbing my every move. I expect him to say something but he doesn’t. I look at his plate, which is the half the size of Chris’s, and can’t help but giggle. He eyes me suspiciously.
“What?” he asks, irritated. I shake my head and giggle again.
“What, Lauren?” he demands.
“You and Chris…eat so…differently,” I say, quickly stuffing my mouth with a spoonful of potatoes. It feels different saying his name to Cal. It doesn’t feel like a sore subject but I glance at him to see if I’m wrong. Instead of seeing him frown, a smug grin spreads across his face.
“He ate like a pig because he wasn’t getting any,” he says and I try to hide my shock. He’s watching me, waiting on my reaction. I’m trying to not give him one but what is he talking about? I want to play coy but screw that.
“What do you mean?” He can’t be referring to what I think he’s referring to. That’s not possible, is it?
“He and Jenna never…” I trail off.
“Nope,” he says, his eyes directly on mine, unearthing feelings within me that only he can evoke with just with his stare. I don’t know how to feel. Happy? I’m ecstatic, actually. All this time, I tried to never think about him and Jenna. It hurt too much. It made me sick. But, to know that he never…that means Cal never…and what I did with Chris, he sees as…God this sucks.
“Did that have anything to do with you?” I say quietly.
“What do you think?” he says stoically and I get up from the table. Cal could always be a jerk when he wanted but now he’s like a jerk with PMS. I head to the bedroom and slam the door. Was it a stupid question? How the hell do I know what’s stupid or off-limits since he’s shut himself off from me? The walls are up again and I feel at a loss because I have no idea what to do about it.
I feel the bed shift as he sits down on it. There’s silence, so much so that it fills the room. A moment later, his hand touches my back, causing a warm sensation to run through me but I shift away from it. That’s how it will start and that will not start tonight. There are so many other important things that need to be brought to the table and distracting me with his form of physical comfort won’t work.
No more distractions.