Page 24 of Wall

“What? Oh. The ring.” I sigh as I peel off my apron and fold it slowly. “I figured he pawned it. You don’t have to track it down. You tried.”

“He traded it. We know the guy who’s got it now. Should be easy enough to get it back. It’s not a problem.”

I search his face. It’s harder than it used to be, more angular and weathered. I don’t think I’d know if he’s lying anymore. Not that he ever bothered lying.After the run, I got drunk. There was a woman. I had sex with her.

Anxiety floods my body, makes my skin crawl.

“I’m going to check the meatloaf out and crack a window. It’s too stuffy in here.” I don’t wait for a reply. I head for the kitchen.

I suppose I thought he’d stay put, but he follows close on my heels. It’s like being stalked by a grizzly bear.

“You want a beer?” I ask, more for something to say than out of hospitality.

“Do you have a pop?”

“Sure.”

I stick my head in the fridge. Oh, the cool is amazing. I’ve already sweated out the curls I styled with my blow dryer. Not that it matters. I shouldn’t have been playing around like this is a date anyway.

The last time John Wall was in this house, he sat on that couch in the living room and confessed that he had sex with another woman. We hadn’t even made love since we’d lost Lemon, and he marched in, bold as you please, and laid it out there.

I struggled more when I told my dad I dinged his car backing into a light post.

My eyes burn. Oh, no. I am not crying. Not in front of this man. No way. Of course, for me,don’t cryis likedon’t think about pink elephants.

I slap a can into his hand, maybe a little harder than I intended.

His brow knits. “You need help?”

“I can handle it myself.”

He raises his palms and eases back, propping himself on a stool at the breakfast bar. He glances at my stack of study guides.

“So, you’ve been taking nursing classes, eh?”

“Yup.” I take the meatloaf from the oven and rest the dish on a stove burner to cool. I have the rolls ready to go, so I pop them in, and then I grab an armful of plates, utensils, napkins, salt, and pepper.

“You sure you don’t need help?”

“Nope. I’ve got it.” I sail off into the dining room. We never used it except for when we had company over. I haven’t done anything but dust and vacuum in it for four years.

The rectangular farmhouse table is a hand-me-down from John’s parents. They gave it to us shortly after we got married. We made love on it once to prove we could, but it was not a comfortable height, and the wood was hard as heck. I wonder if he remembers that.

Lord, now even my feet are hot. If I weren’t wearing zipper-up boots, I’d kick them off and go barefoot.

I set John’s place at the head, and I set mine at the opposite end. It’s going to be weird, but I don’t care. This whole thing is weird. What does he even want? Is this a guilt thing? Does he think if we’re friendly then he doesn’t have to feel bad about what he did?

And why is it sohotin here. I try to open the window, but I never open the dining room window, so it sticks, and I end up making myself sweatier and even more pissed off.

The timer goes off in the kitchen. Thank goodness.

I march back, ignoring where John leans on the counter all cool and casual. I snatch the rolls straight from the oven and drop them in a basket, burning my fingers.

“Hey.” John grabs my wrist. “You’re gonna burn yourself.”

He two-steps me backwards to the sink and guides my hand under a stream of cool water. It soothes the hurt, and that just makes me madder.

“Don’t manhandle me,” I snap, jerking my hand back. “Go wait in the dining room. You’re under foot in here.”

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