shrugged, dipped a samosa into the little plastic container of green sauce. “Maybe they don’t know. I’ll remind him. It’s probably nothing anyway. He sounded a bit vague.”
The knife in my hand felt like it weighed a ton, so I put it down. “What were you talking about when I came in?” I tried not to snap, telling myself for the twentieth time that day Nate was not at fault, he’d done nothing wrong. He never did anything bloody wrong.
“My family.”
I sat a little straighter, reminding myself to breathe. “What did you say?”
“Not much. Told him a bit about Nana and Granddad, that’s all.”
It dawned on me that Liam must have been trying to size up the competition. Then I almost laughed out loud at how obsessive that sounded, as if I were the center of everybody’s universe. Still... “You told him about your grandparents? Why?”
When Nate shrugged it made me want to slap him. If his attitude was any more laissez-faire, he’d be permanently horizontal. “It was a conversation, Abby. We had a couple of beers, played some pool. We got to talking. Why are you so bothered?”
“I don’t like him.”
“Liam?” He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve only known him five minutes.”
I swallowed hard. “He’s smug. I get this bad vibe from him.”
How long could I keep this pretense up? Was I such a good actress that Nate couldn’t see straight through my lies? Then again, it wasn’t the first time I’d kept things from my husband. Secrets he’d never know about, could never know about. Secrets that would destroy him.
“Ah, crap.” Nate mopped the sauce running down his chin with a napkin. “Well, you’re going to have to give him another chance.”
“Why?” My heart thumped wildly again as I wiped my clammy palms on my trousers.
“He said something about Nancy planning on cooking for us and—”
“I don’t want—”
He held up a hand. “Nothing’s planned yet. And it’s just dinner. It’s not like they asked us to move in. They seem nice to me. Give them a chance. Let the kids hang out, too.”
“No.” My voice came out louder than I’d intended. “No,” I said, more quietly this time. “Sarah told me she hates Zac.”
Nate laughed. “Sure she does.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Did she say something to you?”
“No, but he’s a good-looking kid, and—” Nate must have caught my startled look because he leaned over the table and put his hand on my arm. “Seriously, are you okay?”
I tried a smile, feeling like one of those clown dolls with a permanently painted-on grimace. All I needed was the ruffled shirt and polka dots to go with it, maybe a monkey with a pair of cymbals. “Yes, fine. Headache.”
“Again?” Nate frowned.
I cleared my throat. “I think I had some trail mix with hazelnuts at work. You know how bad it can get when I eat those.”
“I’ll run you the bath after dinner.”
“You don’t need to, Na—”
“’Course I do.”
His kind smile made me want to scream at him, shout that I didn’t want him to run me the fucking bath and could he please, for once, not be so fucking nice and stop trying to fucking fix me all the time. Instead I said, “That would be lovely. Thanks, Nate.”
As I desperately tried to stop my mind from rushing back to the past and everything it represented, I wished my husband could prepare a container of sulfuric acid for me to slip into instead.
SIMPLY RED’S STARS played softly in the background of the Kettle Club Tea & Coffee Shop, lending the place a slightly cooler atmosphere than it actually deserved. Tom sat at the old wooden bar, a mug of steaming hot chocolate in front of him, complete with marshmallows, whipped cream and chocolate drizzle. I watched him sink his spoon into the fluffy top layer, take a big scoop and put it in his mouth.
“Mmmm.” His eyes closed for a second. “Despite your dubious music choices, you make the best bloody hot chocolate in the world, Shabby. No wonder Stu asked you to run the place.”
“Thanks,” I said, thinking that at almost twenty-two, perfect beverage-making was about the only thing I could put on my anorexic-looking list of work experience. “You know, you’ll give yourself a heart attack with that stuff,” I added, then told myself to shush or I’d sound like our mother before my next birthday.
Before Tom could comment, the door opened and an elderly couple walked in. I watched as the man held the door for his companion before popping their umbrella into the copper stand. He slid out her chair, helped her sit down, and as he said something to her, she chuckled and covered her mouth with her pale, slim fingers.
I walked over to their table. “Good afternoon,” I said with a smile.
“Good afternoon to you, young lady.” The man’s blue eyes were bloodshot and watery, but surrounded by laughter lines that could tell a thousand tales.
“Can I get you some coffee, or tea?”
“Two cups of tea, please, love,” the woman answered softly as she set her purple knitted beret on the chair next to her and patted her gray curls back into place. “And two sticky buns if you have any. Our George gets grumpy if he doesn’t have his sticky bun.”
I grinned. “Well, we can’t have that now, can we? Two teas and sticky buns it is. Back in a sec.” As I turned I noticed how they’d reached for each other across the table, their worn fingers already entwined. Six months ago I would’ve demanded Tom pass me the sick bucket. Now all I saw was Liam and me in sixty years. It was crazily weird. Wonderfully, crazily weird. As if he’d found a treasure chest of feelings buried so deep in my heart, even I hadn’t known it was there.
After I’d brought the couple’s order over to them I returned to the bar from where Tom eyed me with a barely concealed grin as he licked his spoon. “I saw how you looked at them,” he said.
I popped some dirty cups in the sink. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, right. You’re going all mushy... Anyway, how are things with Liam?”
“Great. He’s busy with work. The bank’s given him more responsibility already.”
“Has he told them about losing his license?”
“Yeah. He didn’t have much choice seeing as he’s supposed to travel to the different branches. God, he was so worried and—”
“No kidding. I still can’t
