Page 38 of This Means War

“You cook?” I finally break the silence. Lydia eyes me over the cutting board.

“Not really,” she answers. “But I do have approximately three meals that I am excellent at preparing. You can’t be a professional chef’s younger sister without learning a thing or two.” Her face clouds for a brief second, and I know she’s thinking about her fight with Josh. I want to say something to make it better, but there are no words I can think of that would even begin to do so.

“Well, I’ll be watching you carefully with the spices,” I say, choosing to go with humor instead. “Wouldn’t want you to try and slip something in my food again.”

Her face pinkens, the color staining her nose first, before spreading to her cheeks. “That was so stupid,” she mumbles. “I don’t know what possessed me to do that.”

A laugh slips from my lips, and her head jerks up, green eyes meeting mine and sending a spark through my body. A smile dances across her face, and the spark turns into a firework. If this was a normal marriage, meaning one where we actually loved each other, I’d stand up, take her by the hand and whisk her to the bedroom. As it is, I force myselfto look away and silence descends on us once more, save for the chopping of her knife.

“So,” Lydia speaks again as she dumps spaghetti noodles into the boiling water. “Do you want to talk about the low blood sugar thing or is that too personal?”

I grimace, then take a long sip of juice to delay having to answer.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, you know,” Lydia offers. “Lots of people are hypoglycemic. Besides, getting the shakes because you need to eat has to be less socially awkward than convulsing in the hallway of your high school because your then boyfriend kissed you after he’d just eaten a Snickers out of his locker.” She lets out a light laugh, but I can see the pain behind the memory, and I want to hug her. Instead, I hear myself tell her the truth.

“I’ve fainted twice,” I admit. “Once here at home and once in my office. The second time I hit my head on the desk. That’s why I started setting alarms to remind myself to eat.”

Lydia nods, taking this in. “Have you seen a doctor about this?”

“I don’t need to see a doctor.” I drain my glass, feeling my defenses go back up. I’ve already let her see too much of my weakness. “I’ve got it managed.”

Lydia purses her lips, but she doesn’t press, clearly sensing I’m done talking about it. My phone beeps from its spot on the counter and I read the email that just came through. It’s from Tom andthe subject line reads,We Need a Plan. Attached to his email is an article about Arnold’s smart board initiative. It made the front page of the Holland Sentinel’s education section. I toss my phone across the island with a groan.

“Everything okay?” Lydia asks, now busy sautéing the vegetables.

For the second time in the last five minutes, I wonder how much I should tell her. For the second time, I’m taken aback when I can’t seem to stop myself from oversharing.

“It’s just this thing with Ferris Arnold,” I tell her. “What Tom came to talk to me about actually. Arnold has never been big into working with the Board of Education to better our city’s schools, but now all of the sudden he’s managed to find the funds to get new state of the art smartboards for every classroom. It’s a huge blow to my campaign, because we’ve been striking hard on the education front. Calling Arnold out for his lack of action and promising that if elected, I’d be a huge advocate for our schools.”

“New smartboards?” A furrow settles across her brow as she dumps soy sauce and some spices into a bowl. “That’s strange.”

“Why is that strange?” I ask.

“I used to sub in Holland,” she tells me, “and I could’ve sworn they just got new smartboards a couple of years ago. I remember because I couldn’t figure out how to use the one in my classroom, and the teacher who helped me out kept commentingon how the year before she’d struggled through learning how to use them.”

I stare at her, hardly able to believe what I’m hearing. “Wait, so you’re telling me that Holland just got new smartboards a couple of years ago?”

“Yeah.” She nods, pausing her whisking to study me. “So why would Arnold get them new ones so soon?”

“And how did he get the school board to approve the expense?” I mutter, my wheels turning. “I have to tell Tom about this.” I start to rise, but Lydia stops me.

“No, what you need to do is eat.” She levels me with a glare, and reluctantly I sit back down. Lydia nods approvingly, then turns backs to the stove to pour the sauce over the pasta and vegetable mixture. After using tongs to dish out the food, she joins me at the island, setting a plate in front of each of us. Her hand brushes mine as she passes me a fork, and I temporarily forget about Ferris Arnold and his smartboards.

I’m eating dinner with my wife. The thought slides into my brain and settles there, like sunshine after a long winter.

“Shall we pray?” Lydia folds her hands, and I only hesitate a second before doing the same. I keep forgetting she’s the type of Christian who actually prays. Personally, I haven’t talked to God in ages. I feel a bit bad that our first conversation after such a long time is about a plate of pasta. Then again, it’s not as if I have much else to talk about with Him. I’mpretty self-sufficient.

Despite my indifference, I force myself to pay attention to what Lydia is saying. She just made me dinner, listening to her prayer is the least I can do.

“God, thank you for this food, we pray that you would bless it to our bodies. We pray also that you would give Cole wisdom about how to move forward with his campaign and help him to get the rest and nutrition that he needs. Amen.” Her innocuous words ruffle me, and a derisive snort escapes me.

“Sorry, did I say something amusing?” Lydia raises an eyebrow in my direction.

“No, uh,” I fumble around, not wanting to offend her in the middle of this truce we seemed to have called, “I’m just not that into praying. I’m more of an action type of guy.”

“I see.” Lydia swirls a noodle around her fork. It’s her turn to look amused now, and I can’t stop myself from prodding her for an explanation.

“What’re you smiling about?” I demand.

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