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Like there was never any possibility she wouldn’t.
I don’t know what to do with that. I’ve spent four years waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the nanny to quit. For the preschool to call. For something to break that I can’t fix with money or a phone call.
She just says yeah.
Her hair is down tonight. It falls past her shoulders in soft waves. She’s wearing some kind of pajama top covered in tiny Christmas trees.
The fabric looks soft and old, washed so many times that the green has faded to something closer to sage. One of the buttons near the collar doesn’t match the others.
I notice both things.
I shouldn’t.
“Are those pajamas?”
Her eyes drop, then come back to mine. “Excellent observation.”
“They have Christmas trees on them.”
“Again, very good.”
“It’s December third.”
“Your point?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t have Christmas pajamas?”
“No.”
Her expression is appalled. “No Christmas pajamas?”
“No.”
“Not even plaid?”
“Noelle.”
“Ugh, this is worse than I thought.”
“What is?”
“You.”
I stare at her.
She smiles. Not the polite, careful smile she gives me when we’re talking about Shiloh’s schedule. A real one. Slightly crooked.
Something pulls low in my stomach. Unexpected and unwelcomed. I shift in the chair.
She is my wife. Technically.
It doesn’t mean anything.
I have a contract that says so. Bryant drafted it. Twenty-three pages. I’ve read all of them.
None of them say anything about sweet crooked smiles.
