Page 75 of Fighting Words

That smile again. Always so tempting…

I walk over, prepared to poke him in the chest until he falls into compliance, but the closer I get, the less I think it’s a good idea to touch him at all. Nate watches me approach with a predator’s focus, his gaze on my face, and then, more intently, on my mouth. Someone has sucked every bit of oxygen out of the room as we stand facing each other.

I’ve forgotten my objective in bringing him up here. Was it to argue or to…

I have to stop myself from leaning forward. It’s a physical ache, but Andrew is downstairs and everything is a mess and I’m mostly to blame for that.

“We should go back down,” I say, my voice weak and flimsy. I could easily be persuaded to stay.

Nate doesn’t move, and I realize I’m trembling now, nervous about what we’re about to do. Nate has this way of looking at me like he’s using a fine-tooth comb. He roves over all the parts of me that were carelessly tossed aside by everyone who came before him. Until now, I was part ghost, but Nate sees everything, even my secrets. I suspect he already knows what I’m trying so hard to fight against. With that realization, I suddenly feel so exposed and vulnerable. A shiver racks my spine and I whip open the door so I can head back down to Andrew. Nate and I have been up here long enough.

CHAPTER 22

SUMMER

I’ve never experienced a moretense dinner than this one, not even when Nate and I sat across the table from each other at The Dalesman Country Inn. The scraping of our silverware across our plates is the only sound beyond the crackling fire. Andrew picks up his wine glass, takes a drink, sets it down. I adjust my napkin, clear my throat. Andrew has tried and triedand triedto get a conversation going, but Nate is unwilling to reciprocate and I’m no help either.

When Nate and I came back downstairs after our chat in my room, Nate insisted on cookingalone, so I took Andrew into the living room to talk, but I wasn’t sure which topics were safe. Our past, present, and future seemed totally off limits, at least while Nate was in earshot, which left very little in the way of conversation starters. I picked his brain about everything to do with Emma and their group of friends back in New York. Technically, I’m a part of the group too, but not really. I’ve always belonged among them solely as an extension of Emma and Andrew.

“Has Emma said anything about what I’m doing?” I prodded, curious.

“About your work?” he asked.

I nodded.

“No, not really. I mean, she doesn’t really understand it, why you chose this over—” He saw my expression and cut himself off with a shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter. She’ll come around.”

Will she? I worry our relationship is beyond repair. We’ve been in this new normal for over two years now.

“She’s rooting for us, of course,” he said with a timid smile. “She wants everything to go back to the way it was.”

I felt the guilt then, like a boulder sitting heavy in my stomach. With barely any effort at all, I could repair things with Andrew and win back the approval of Emma. It would be so easy to set everything as it was: reconstruct the dream house, walk back inside, and shut the door behind me.

I’m not opposed to that solution either. In fact, it’s what I was planning to do just as soon as I finished this job with Nate and headed back to the States. Notrightwhen I returned, of course.

I’ve always envisioned marrying Andrew at some ambiguous point in the future, when I stopped having cold feet about him and our relationship, when I was ready to get serious and settle down. Maybe after my next birthday, or the one after that.

Andrew coming here changes everything though. He’s forcing my hand. Our future is no longer a hypothetical thing; it’s here now, and I have to make a decision.

It’s why I’m so quiet at dinner. I have too much to think about. I’ve barely touched the pasta Nate made, as good as it is. The wine has gone down easy enough, though I cut myself off before I have another glass. With the way I’m feeling, I’d rather not muddle things with too much alcohol.

I feel Nate studying me, but I don’t dare look at him. I’ve been focused on my plate mainly. I’ve sat in this spot for ten or fifteen minutes and I think surely that’s enough. I scoot my chair back and take my plate to the sink.

“I’ll do those,” Nate tells me, and I don’t argue.

I want to go up and take a shower. I don’t want to stay in a room with both Nate and Andrew together for one more second.

I excuse myself and scurry up, but apparently, I’m not the only one looking for an escape. I’m not even completely up the stairs before I hear the back door open.

It’s Nate. He’s leaving.

I want to rush down immediately, but I suppress the urge. I only allow myself to hurry to the window once I’ve grabbed a fresh set of clothes. I half-expect to see taillights in the distance, but his car is parked where we left it earlier. He’s not going anywhere; he’s getting to work. I stay pressed close to the window as I watch him set up a lamp, illuminating the spot where he likes to chop wood. Apparently now is as good a time as any to replenish the stack in the shed. Never mind that it’s freezing cold and pitch black. He’d rather get frostbite than endure another minute in this cottage, and I don’t even blame him.

I turn the water on in the shower and crank it until steam fills the small room. I hear Andrew in the hallway, heading into the bedroom, and it doesn’t even occur to me to call out to him and have him join me in here.

When I’m done stalling—lathering, shaving, exfoliating—I step out of the shower and dress in the oversized t-shirt and socks I brought into the bathroom with me. I wrap my hair in a towel and slip into the room where Andrew sits on the bed, trying in vain to scroll on his phone.

He looks up when I walk in, his eyes a little red, like he’s been crying. “Does he have a cat?”

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