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As he starts unpacking the groceries, he says, “I’ve got some garlic bread to go with the pasta.”
“That’ll be nice.”
“Sit down,” he says, “put your feet up. I’ll get started.” He turns the oven on and begins filling the kettle.
This is how he expresses affection, I tell myself as I sit down. It’s one of the five love languages, isn’t it? Words of affirmation, acts of service, giving gifts, quality time, and physical touch. Cam’s number one is definitely acts of service. He tells me he loves me by cooking, cleaning, tidying, and doing chores, and he appreciates it when I do the same for him. He’s also happy for us to spend time together—watching TV, going for a walk, playing computer games.
But he doesn’t give gifts. He doesn’t tell me he loves me. And he doesn’t touch me, not in the way I want to be touched.
“How was your day?” he asks as he puts the pasta on, then begins to peel an onion.
“Not bad, thanks.” I tell him about my morning appointments, and a bit about the Christmas party. “How was yours?”
“Pretty good, actually. They had a seventies theme so there was lots of dancing to Saturday Night Fever and ABBA. And plenty of flares.”
“You should have stayed if you were enjoying it.”
“No, I had something much more important to do.” He smiles.
I curl up on the sofa and rest my head on the back. The wine is starting to have an effect, my limbs and spine beginning to loosen. I’m not going to think about Henry and what happened at the hotel. I’m going to practice mindfulness, and think about right here, right now.
I watch Cam cook, which he does capably and fluidly, frying the garlic, chopped onion, and chicken, adding spices, cream, and cheese while he tells me about an article he read today about the captain of the All Blacks. He couldn’t cook much when I met him, but he’s enjoyed learning techniques over the years, and even though he doesn’t exactly tackle soufflés or consommé, he’s better than Henry, who openly admits he even burns toast, and has a chef come in to prepare his meals every week.
Nope. Not going to think about Henry.
I rest the wine glass against my cheek to cool my hot skin, and sigh.
When the pasta is cooked, Cam tosses it in the cheesy sauce to coat it before serving it with a sprig of parsley. I rise and lay the table, carry through our dishes and cutlery and the green salad he’s prepared, and we sit opposite each other to eat.
“This is lovely,” I tell him truthfully, taking small bites of the chicken and pasta.
“Yeah, not bad,” he says. “I think I got the recipe nailed now.”
We’re polite as strangers, circling each other, just observing. We’ve had enough arguments that we both know how this works. It takes a while for the heat of an argument to die down. For hurt feelings to subside, and for forgiveness to take their place.
He knows he’s hurt me, and that at the moment our treaty is fragile, so he steers clear of any topics that are likely to cause problems. We talk about what we’re doing the next few days. I’ve bought most of our Christmas presents for both our families, but there are a couple of things we need to get, and we also need to wrap them all. Cam suggests we shop tomorrow morning, then spend the afternoon wrapping together while we play some Christmas music, and I agree.
Sunday is Christmas Eve, which we’re spending with my parents and my brother. Then on Christmas Day we’re going over to his parents’ place. His brothers and their wives will be there, too. Then we’ve got a couple of days alone before we fly up to Wellington.
“Is Henry going to the wedding?” Cam asks.
I stop with my fork halfway to my mouth. My face heats.
Oh shit. I should’ve known this was going to happen.
Chapter Eleven
Juliette
“Why did you ask that?” I demand.
Cam looks down at his dish and spears a piece of pasta. “I just wondered.”
“Of course he’s going. All the guys are going.” Flustered and upset, I drop my fork with a clatter. “Why would you bring him up now, when we’re trying to move on?”
“I’m sorry.” He puts down his own cutlery. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I did. I’m jealous of him, I guess. I know you like him.” He massages his head. “I’ve got a headache.” He gets up and takes our dishes out to the kitchen, then opens the Panadol and takes two with a mouthful of water.
He hesitates, then he opens the fridge and extracts two chocolate desserts he must have bought at the supermarket. He brings them back to the table and puts one before me, then sits.
