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After I changed into a pair of black yoga pants and a yellow t-shirt, I decided to go to the kitchen to feed my starving stomach. It growls as I unlock my door, but as I step out, I almost bump into Foster. He smiles and steadies my shoulders as I am knocked off balance.
“Let go,” I snap.
The smile fades from his face. “We should talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I’ll play the good little wifey until the deal is finished.”
“It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“What way?” I walk down the hall to the kitchen with Foster behind me.
“Hostile.”
“I’m not hostile. You run hot and cold. It doesn’t surprise me you couldn’t find a wife.”
I yank open the refrigerator door, but Foster places his hand on the cold steel and slams it shut.
“It’s not that I couldn’t find a wife; I didn’t want a wife.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not cut out to be a husband. I’m married to my work.”
“Then you’ll be alone for the rest of your life.”
“Possibly, but I love what I do.”
I gesture to his hand on the door. “Can I please get in here? I’m hungry.” As if on cue, my stomach growls again, and this time Foster takes his hand away. I ignore him but can feel his eyes watching me as I made myself a sandwich.
“I thought you were making me soup?”
“Make your own soup,” I say as I slice my turkey sandwich in half. I go to wash my knife in the sink, and when I turn around, Foster is sitting at the breakfast bar, munching on half of my sandwich.
“What the fuck?”
“I’m hungry, too.”
“Then make your own sandwich!”
“I don’t have time. I have a call scheduled in twelve minutes.”
I roll my eyes, get a bottle of water, then take my sandwich to the dining table. I don’t want to sit next to Foster; I just want to be left alone.
I spend the rest of the day reading the last of another romance novel I never finished. It’s nice to fade into a fairytale that I couldn’t have, at least for the next seventeen months. I finish just as a rainstorm begins, so I get up to look out the window. Sheets of water slip down the glass, but I stare through the blurriness at the avenue below.
When I finally leave my bedroom, the aroma of tomato sauce hits my nose. I find Foster in the kitchen, stirring something with a large wooden spoon.
Curious, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Making dinner.”
Another pot next to the sauce is bubbling away, and as I peer around Foster, I see spaghetti.
“How is it that I didn’t know you cooked?”
“You never asked. I do a lot of things besides growl at my employees and my wife. Would you like to taste the sauce?”
“Sure.”
