Page 25 of Wall

He hesitates a second, and I don’t know what I’m going to do if he refuses. I couldn’t budge this man an inch if I put back into it, but eventually, he nods slowly and backs off.

I throw open the window over the sink and suck down a breath of freezing air.

That’s better. I slowly become aware that my heart is racing and sweat’s dripping down between my boobs. I need to calm down.

I’m over it. I’vebeenover it. He made his choices. I made mine.

All I need to do is put the meatloaf and potatoes in a serving dish, microwave some green beans from a can, and finish this thing.

Before I do, I lift my sweater and flap it, letting the winter air cool my front.

A throat clears.

I whirl around, yanking the sweater down tight as I yelp. “What?!”

John grabs the wine from the counter. “If you don’t mind, I was gonna open this.” He’s staring at my boobs. He couldn’t have seen anything. I was facing the other way.

Doesn’t stop him from staring, though. He always was obsessed with my boobs.

I wave him off. “Fine by me.”

“You got a corkscrew?”

“You know where it is.”

Oh, sheesh, I’m being so salty. I’m really not a bitch by nature. I hate that I can’t control this irritation that keeps burbling up.

I wasn’t even that mad when he confessed what he’d done. I was too lowdown to be truly angry. When I thought about him with that woman—Stephanie—I felt sick, not pissed. Puking, head-aching, chills and shakessick.

The microwave beeps, and I shove my hands in oven mitts. I’m angry now, though. I grab the meatloaf platter, the potatoes and green beans, and the bread basket, and I schlep it into the dining room in one trip.

I plop the dishes in front of John, and I go seat myself at the far end of the table. He poured me a glass of wine. Good. I swallow half in one gulp.

John raises an eyebrow.

“Help yourself,” I say.

He waits, but when he sees I’m not moving to serve him, he takes his butter knife and cuts himself a thick slice. I forgot serving utensils. Oh, well. He’s managing.

He heaps potatoes and rolls and green beans on his plate, and then he looks to me.

“Go on. I’m not hungry.”

He pauses, knife and fork hovering in midair. “You sure?”

“Absolutely sure.”

He shrugs, and then he tucks in. Holy moly, it’s like he hasn’t eaten in a week. He attacks the meat first, of course, and downs that in four bites. Then, he shovels down the potatoes. I see him looking for the butter. I forgot that, too. He can darn well get it himself if he wants it.

He must decide everything’s good enough as is because he finishes the rolls in no time and helps himself to another serving of meatloaf. Well, I say serving, but he’s eaten near half at this point.

Finally, he scrapes the last crumbs onto his fork, licks it clean, and his eyes drift shut. He lets out a groan of satisfaction.

“That’s even better than I remember, Mona.”

His lips curl up. He’s content, like the cat who got the cream.

He always loved my meatloaf.

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