Page 42 of Wall

Oh, they haven’t. My insides are swishing and swirling like crazy. He’s so close, and he’s so big. And I always loved watching him drive. The casual way he rests his hand on the steering wheel. The way he shifts. The way he glances at me out of the side of his eyes.

There’s something about the way a man drives a big truck. The waythisman drives a truck. Even when we first met he was like this. Capable, confident. And now that he’s also ripped? It’s heady stuff.

I feel delicate beside him. And squirmy.

There’s a few more cars than I expect when we pull into Broyce’s. It’s a popular place, though. I guess it’s as hopping on the weekends as it is during happy hours. The girls and I come sometimes after a hard shift for wings and poppers.

John helps me from the truck, grabbing me by the hips and hoisting me over a puddle of muddy slush before he sets me down. Lifting my weight looks like no effort to him at all. His large hands are light on my waist.

“So, are you just working out a lot, or do you do those competitions?”

“Competitions?”

“The ones where the guys get oiled up and pose in speedos?”

John snorts. “I work construction. And I do some security work at the businesses when they need me. Don’t got time for posing in bikini bottoms.” He shoots me a sly look. “You want me to, though, I can make that happen.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Pass.”

“You sure? I’d make it look good.”

“I bet you would, sugar.” Somehow, we’ve arrived at the hostess station, and a woman with Dolly Parton hair and a bedroom voice is grinning at us. She’s older, but she’s what my mother would callwell-kept. “You’re a prime specimen, aren’t you?” She winks at me. “You better keep a tight hold on this one.”

I’m suddenly aware of my hand clutching John’s arm. I didn’t know I’d let it venture there as we negotiated the icy parking lot. It must look strange. Him with me. Me grabbing at him.

I drop my hand, shove it in my pocket.

“What can I do for you, sugar?” The hostess beams at John. Preens.

The polite smile I wear by default turns brittle. She’s only being friendly; it’s her job. I don’t need to feel any sort of way about good customer service. Sheesh.

John’s smile is nothing but polite. “I had a reservation for seven, but we’re early. Can we get a table for two?”

“Sure can. Name on the reservation?”

“Wall.”

She rakes her gaze up John’s body, eyes popped wide. “You sure are!” She scratches something off a seating chart and says, “Follow me. Is this a special occasion?”

Before I can answer, John says, “It will be.”

The hostess trills, a genuine, silly laugh. “A night to remember, eh? You’ll have to order the champagne. Fair warning. It’s been in the back since the millennium. Best case scenario, it’s aged nicely. Worst case, it’s so bad nobody wants it.”

My shoulders loosen. She really is just being sociable. Plenty of people remarked on John’s size when we used to be together. I didn’t mind then. It made me proud to be with him. I’m not accustomed anymore. That’s all.

She seats us at a small table. John helps me take my coat off, and hangs it over the back of his chair. He always did that. My mother-in-law made my father-in-law do it so she has “more room to maneuver,” so John thinks it’s the way it’s done. I told him it wasn’t, but he didn’t believe me.

I prefer a booth, but this table is all right. We’re not smack dab in the middle of the room. We’re actually next to the high-top tables by the bar. It’s nice here, and we can see the TVs. That’ll help if we don’t have anything to talk about.

We used to be able to chat for hours, but we don’t have those things in common anymore. The house, his family, our plans.

Last night, well, that wasn’t exactlyconversation. The butterflies in my stomach take a turn toward nauseating. I search for something to say.

Something light.

Something that won’t bring up the past.

Oh, I got nothing.

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