Page 25 of The Rest is History

But it’s all shit. I’m the one who doesn’t know Asher.

Sawyer turns away from the cupboard where he’s been gathering cutlery. He hands me a handful of forks, knives and spoons. “Could you set these on the table, Reece?” he says. His smile . . .

I give myself a mental shake. “Sure,” I say, thankful for a chance to be of some use.

Asher, who’s been checking on the steak on the opposite side of the kitchen, brings the pan to the island and slides it across the surface. “Sawyer, you can take this.”

The dinner table is small. Just enough to fit the space provided for dining. We sit down to eat, forks clinking as we help ourselves. Asher pours each of us a glass of wine.

“Have you been to Iowa before?” Sawyer asks me once we’ve all settled down with our plates.

“Uhm, no, actually. I’ve been to a lot of places but not Iowa.”

“It's quiet out here. Not like the big cities you’re probably used to in Arizona.”

“Yeah, but . . . I think – I think I like the quiet. It’s different, yes. But nice.” Asher smiles at me across the table, but he’s yet to participate in the conversation. To try and ease some of the awkwardness, I tell Sawyer, “I’m staying at the Fairway Guesthouse. From what I saw online, it looks like a nice, quiet place to spend a week or two. I liked the rustic feel.”

“Awesome.”

“Sawyer chopped up plenty of wood for the construction of that guesthouse,” Asher says.

I switch my gaze back to Sawyer. He just shakes his head. “Nothing to it,” he mumbles.

“Sawyer is a logger. Most hard-working logger in these parts,” Asher continues. The pride in his voice makes my chest ache.

While we eat, I watch with interest, as Asher fills Sawyer's plate as he finishes his food. Replacing pieces of meat and adding vegetables to his plate several times. Sawyer hardly seems to notice as he eats the infinite supply of food magically appearing on his plate. It’s odd, and also none of my business.

Eventually, curiosity is killing me about the picture on the mantle. “The picture of the baby . . . ?” I start, but don’t know how to finish.

Sawyer turns his head in the direction of the mantle. “That’s Ezra. Our nephew. My sister’s baby.”

“He’s two months old,” Asher says.

I wish I was friends with them so I could ask to see the baby one day.

After dinner, it is slightly less uncomfortable. I help clear the table. Sawyer loads the dishwasher. It’s very . . . domesticated, and it’s impossible not to feel out of place.

“Are you alright?” Asher asks when he hands me a tube of hand cream after I’ve washed and dried my hands.

“Yes, of course. Thank you for dinner. Everything was great.”

His gaze lingers. Does he have something to say? Something important? I understand that this isn’t a catch-up. I understand that this is just a courtesy Asher has extended to me – for which I’m very grateful. But is there something still left unsaid?

If there is, he doesn’t share it. Instead, he asks Sawyer, “Dessert?”

Sawyer nods.

The smiles between them make me rage with jealousy and shake with a sadness so deep my bones feel fractured. The fact that I cannot find a single thing wrong with this picture makes my heart bleed with blood and tears. Asher used to look at me the way he’s looking at Sawyer now.

I hate the fact that there is someone else in this world who loves Asher the way I do – did. Do.

“No one will ever love you as much as I do,” I told him one day.

Yet, right here, right before my eyes, there’s someone who does.

“Cake, Reece?” Sawyer asks me.

“I really should go,” I say. But the thought in my head when I decline the invitation is about how Sawyer’s scruff might feel against Asher’s palm. Or . . . his thighs. Does it burn? I clench my teeth against the unintended visual.

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