Page 10 of Loud Unspoken Memories

He shrugs. “The bed’s a decent size. You stay on your side. I’ll stay on mine.”

I huff. And huff. And huff some more. “You can’t be serious. Oh my god, this is straight out of some twisted romantic comedy or something. If you think I’m going to share the bed with you so you can get naked and try to charm me with that…thingin your pants,”—I glare at him—“think again.”

He looks down at his crotch. “Thatthing?”He eyes me like I’m crazy. “Listen,Martina, it’s not like we have a choice. But if you want to give the couch a try, by all means, be my guest. But while you’re ruminating over that, I’m going to whip something up for dinner.” He narrows his eyes at me. “You a vegan or anything?”

“No. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know. You look like a vegan.”

“What the hell does a vegan look like?”

He shakes his head. “I just told you.You. Try to keep up. But maybe that’s too hard for someone who went to one of the nation’s top party schools.”

My jaw drops. “So now I’m a vegananda lush? That’s pretty funny coming from a guy who’s hoarding enough wine to get through the apocalypse. You really know how to treat your houseguests, Dallas.”

“You’re not a houseguest. You’re a… lost puppy.”

I stomp my foot. It echoes off the plank flooring.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Jeez, fine. You’re a strong independent woman who clearly doesn’t need help from anyone, least of all the likes of me.” He sticks his head inside the refrigerator. “Steaks okay with you?”

“I suppose,” I pout. “After all, don’t all dogs like meat?”

He turns and rolls his eyes, clearly exasperated with me. As if I had any control over the circumstances that led me to being right here. Then he grabs a hair tie and pulls back his hair, securing it at the back of his head before he starts cooking.

And despite having a hundred reasons my mind should be somewhere else, I can’t help but follow his every movement as he cooks dinner.

When he catches me watching him, I get up and walk over to the decorative wall, running a finger across the sealed corks of a few wine bottles. I like to think of myself as a wine connoisseur, but only of inexpensive wine.

I find myself thinking, or perhaps fantasizing, about Dallas sitting on that bed, book in one hand, glass of wine in the other, his long hair loose and falling to one side of his face as his eyes travel across the words on the page. And suddenly… I’m jealous of a book.

Chapter Five

Dallas

I’ve never had a woman here, Allie and my mother notwithstanding. And now I’m making dinner for one. It feels strange, like I’ve entered another dimension. And it’s not a feeling I like. Martina Carver should not be the woman I’m cooking for. I should be cooking for my wife.

I never did much cooking back then. Sure, I’d throw steaks on the grill on a Friday night, but Phoebe, as the stay-at-home-parent, did the lion’s share. And joyfully so. Being in the kitchen was where she was happiest. Creating new and exciting dishes. Putting a spin on DJ’s favorite macaroni and cheese. Always finding ways of getting him to eat vegetables. She was always creative in everything she did.

I glance up to see Marti carefully watching. She’s tenacious. Mysterious in a way. And beautiful.

My mind almost stops functioning at the word. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of another woman as beautiful. Attractive maybe, hot even. But beautiful? That was reserved for my wife. My high school sweetheart. My one and only soulmate.

My appetite disappears. I put Marti’s plate of food on the table then cover mine with plastic wrap and stick it in the fridge, slamming the door of the refrigerator a little too forcefully before stalking to the front door.

“Where are you going?” she asks before I step outside.

“We need more wood.”

I don’t need to look back at her to know she’s eyeing the large pile I already stacked in the corner. I just keep going, walk out the door, and shut it behind me. I shovel snow fromthe porch then I sit on the front stoop watching more snow accumulate on the steps until my ass freezes.

~ ~ ~

Not having checked the time before I went outside, I’m not sure how long I sat there. But it’s almost midnight once I’m back inside. I stop in my tracks the moment I enter.

Marti is asleep on my bed. Sound asleep, as if she hasn’t slept in days. All her clothes are on. Her shoes even, as if she’s prepared to make a fast getaway. Why does this not surprise me about her?

My knife, still properly sheathed, lays underneath her limp hand. She’s so near the side of the bed, I fear she’ll fall off if she moves an inch to the right.

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