Page 42 of Two Friends in Marriage
When I hear the front door open, I jump.
“Is Evan home?”she asks.
“Uh.Yeah.”
I feel embarrassed, even though we weren’t talking about him anymore.And Evan returning after a walk is an everyday occurrence.He’ll be sweaty, and he’ll have a shower…
Oh God.Thinking about him in the shower is just making it worse.
I try to scrub my brain of those thoughts.I’ll finish this conversation, then go downstairs and cook dinner.Nothing I haven’t done many times before.
It’ll be okay.
It’s not okay.
Evan comes downstairs after I’ve finished making pesto in the food processor.His hair is slightly damp.
“Did you use our basil?”He tilts his head in the direction of our backyard, and why am I admiring his neck?
Stupid brain.
“Uh, yes,” I say.“Could you cook the pasta while I barbecue the chicken?I have boneless thighs, so it won’t take long.”
“Sure thing.”He smiles.
Ugh, why does he have to do that?
“Did you say something?”he asks.
Oh no.Did I mutter that under my breath?
“Nope!”I grab the chicken out of the fridge—I applied a dry rub before my call with Claudia—and escape out the back door.
My skin is warm and prickly, but I feel a bit better once the chicken is underway.It really is nice to be able to grill in the backyard.
While my attraction to Evan seems like it came out of nowhere, I know that’s not the case.I knowsomethinghas been happening for a while now, thanks to the thoughtful shit he does.Every weekday, he makes me coffee and dresses up a giant plushie—the penguin is currently wearing a red beret.He’s gotten us patio furniture and a barbecue without spending much money, and without me having to lift a finger.He’s also…
I have to stop making a list.It’s not helping.Maybe these things sound mundane, but I feel like I’m being cared for on a daily basis, which is a luxury.
I flip over the chicken.
“Jane?”Evan appears at the back door.
“What?”I snap.
He looks taken aback by my tone, and something clenches in my chest.
“Sorry,” I say, setting down the tongs.
He steps onto the patio, and even though I’m prepared for him to put his hand on my shoulder, it still shocks me.When he strokes his thumb over my skin—I’m wearing a tank top—it’s almost too much.I want to burrow into him and run away at the same time, but I force myself to do neither.
“Sorry,” I say again.“I, um.I was lost in my thoughts.Did you have a question?”
“Mm.That smells good.”He nods toward the barbecue.“What did you want on the salad?Oil and vinegar?”
“Yep.Just something simple.”I smile to show him that everything is normal with me, but I must overdo it because he gives me an odd look.
As he heads back inside, I think of his words.
