“Meatloaf.”
“My favorite.”
He was smiling. Relaxed. He loosened his collar and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter and asked me about my day.
He was normal.
Completely, totally normal.
Almost too normal.
That was the thing. The night before, he’d been a ghost. Quiet, distracted, hiding his hand. Tonight, he was cheerful. Chatty. He told me a long story about a delivery driver who’d backed into a porta-potty on the job site. He laughed at his own story. He helped me set the table. He rinsed the dishes after dinner without being asked, which he never did.
It felt like watching an actor play my husband.
Every time he moved his left hand, I watched it. The pale band was already fading a little, blending into the sunburn.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, drying a plate.
“Just tired.”
“Want to watch something? That baking show?”
