Page 47 of Fault Lines
Miss you too. Love you.
My breath came out a little shaky but I clicked off the screen and stowed the phone in my pocket. No use staring at it the rest of the day. I turned my attention back to the shelf and started stacking the new travel mugs next to Nate, trying to pretend nothing was out of the ordinary.
“The hubs?” Nate asked, voice low and not quite teasing, just curious.
I glanced over at him, narrowing my eyes. “How’d you know?”
He shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You get this look when you talk about him, or hear from him. Sort of sad. Guess I picked up on it.”
A sad look. That was a new one for me, and it made me want to hide behind the shelf. Was it really that obvious how my marriage was going—or not going, as the case may be? I turned away and started rearranging the mugs again, chewing that thought over. Was I really unhappy? It was a question I’d never let myself ask.
I felt good when Cam was around, when he actually paid me attention—it was like every little scrap of affection filled my whole world. But as soon as we were apart it felt like there was this giant hole where he should be. Maybe if I just glued myself to his side our problems would go away. The mental image made me snort.
Fat chance.
∞∞∞
Nate’s apartment was on the third floor, tucked into the corner with a heavy black door and a little brass number on it. At six on the dot, like he’d told me, I knocked. The door swung open, and there he was, grinning wide enough to show both dimples this time.
“Welcome to my abode. Please make yourself at home.”
He took the bottle of wine from me, glancing over the label. “Vintage,” he announced, eyebrows hopping up. “Very nice.”
I laughed. “I didn’t even know if you liked wine, really. I just didn’t want to show up and eat all your food without bringing something to trade.”
He stepped aside, waving me in. “You can come over and eat my food any time. No contribution required.” I could tell he meant it, too.
Stepping inside, I was surprised. I guess I’d half-expected superhero memorabilia or stacks of comic books, but his apartment was nothing like that. The living room was put together in all dark, elegant colors—a deep black leather couch anchoring the space across from a massive flat screen, a mahogany coffee table between them. Two matching recliners, spotlessly clean, and abstract art on the walls instead of action figures. Even the plants in the corners looked healthy and intentional. A foosball table was set up against the far wall, ready for tournaments. Honestly, the whole place had Cam’s name written all over it. Sleek and masculine. Not a nerdy knickknack in sight.
“Your place is nice,” I said, trailing after him.
“Thanks.” He led me through the living room and into the kitchen.
This room was even better, decked out in dark granite countertops and a refrigerator so shiny and high-tech it almost looked like something from a spaceship. The door glowed with a screen full of apps.
He set the wine on the breakfast bar and reached up to grab glasses from the cabinet. He popped the cork and poured, giving us both a healthy amount before handing one to me.
I swirled it the way I’d seen people do on TV and brought it to my nose. “It smells great, thank you.”
He grinned, already turning back to the stove. “Tonight, we’re having duck breast with apricot chutney. Been wanting to try this recipe for a while.”
“You really like to cook?” I asked, a bit surprised—I’d never heard him mention it before earlier.
He nodded, shoulders relaxing as he stirred something in a hot pan. “Always have, since I was a kid. My mom used to let me help in the kitchen. Some of my favorite memories.”
I remembered what Rachel had said, that Nate hadn’t exactly had the happiest childhood. I wanted to ask about it, but didn’t want to make him sad.
He pulled out another pan, sloshed in what looked like orange juice, and started whisking. Clouds of steam rose up as he added sugar, apricots, and a bunch of spices I couldn’t name. He moved around the kitchen without any wasted motion, so confident it was almost hypnotic to watch.
“That looks fancy,” I said, unable to keep the awe out of my voice.
He snorted. “It’s not, not really. Just different. Do you like Indian food?”
“I do. I’ve tried chutney before, and I liked it,” I admitted.
He flashed a quick smile. “Then you’ll definitely like this.”
He sipped wine with one hand, stirring with the other, then finally scraped the apricot mixture into a bowl and added a squeeze of lemon. He mixed it quickly, not bothering to let it rest, and I could tell we were both too hungry to wait.
