Page 36 of Surrender

Her gaze skates across the table, locking on the room beyond my shoulder. “I enjoy it sometimes.”

There’s more she isn’t saying. Otherwise, she could look me in the eye while saying she doesn’t always feel up to it.

Does she feel guilt over not always wanting to be the one serving a meal? I don’t think as a society we appreciate the mental effort that goes into planning three meals a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. An effort that falls disproportionately on women and mothers.

“You’re good at it. But I’ll tell you right now, if there wasn’t several feet of snow outside, I’d be happy with takeout too.”

Her mouth drops open, then closes as if she can’t come up with something to say. I fill the silence for her.

“Meaning, if your kids will eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and you’re happy eating one too, don’t feel like you need to make something spectacular like this just because I’m here. You don’t owe me.”

When her eyes turn glassy, I almost wish I could take the words back. Except I feel deep down inside that she probably needed to hear them.

Her water glass knocks against her plate as she picks it up. I wait patiently for her to finish her sip.

“Do you really think it’s spectacular?” She presses her lips into a tight line but not before I notice the bottom one tremble. And that fucking breaks my heart.

“Best damn thing I’ve eaten this year.”

“Thank you.”

“Just to say it’d be a goddamn blessing to get to eat this food on the regular.”

“Thank you.”

I ignore the hoarse quality in her tone. “You’re welcome, Whitney.”

Moments pass, marked by the clink of silverware and porcelain.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to give the kids a bath after dinner.”

“Help yourself. There are fresh towels beneath the sink in the bathroom.”

She moves to stand, but I stop her with a hand on her forearm. The warmth of her skin seeps into my fingertips. “I got it. I’ll clean up so you can take care of your kids.”

I hand her Bennett and set out to clear the table.

Twenty minutes later, the dishwasher is loaded, and the leftovers are put away, waiting for me to sneak a second helping later. With the bathroom door tightly closed, I don my winter gear and head outside to clear snow for a second time.

* * *

An orange fire crackles in the grate, filling the room with the scent of smoke and charred logs. The leather recliner creaks as I extend my legs and thaw my frozen toes in its warmth. Outside, the storm is letting up. Flakes drift lazily rather than blowing around. This last round of shoveling might have taken care of the bulk of it. I don’t expect more than an inch or two come morning.

I know what I should do. I should wake up early, clear the remainder away, and head to the motel, leaving her here like we originally intended. If the Kramers have checked out, I can give Whitney the option to stay here or return to the motel. Bennett appears to be sleeping fine.

We can revert to virtual strangers. Not two people who shared a house for forty-two hours.

My fingers tighten around the cold beer clenched in my fist.

For some reason, that plan sucks.

Halfway to a frustrated sip, the door to my bedroom creaks open, and I pause with the bottle in front of my mouth. I strain to listen for little feet sneaking down my hallway like earlier this evening.

“Mind if I join you?” Whitney asks, her voice hesitant and tense.

“Not at all.”

She rounds the couch and sits gingerly on the unsoiled end. The other is covered with a black plastic garbage bag secured with duct tape. A visual reminder of what lies beneath.

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