I snarl. Why is it everyone seems to think that I was once fit to defend the country, but now I’m unable to make a sandwich?
I think about telling Olivia about Amanda and Lily. I think about telling her everything: about the war, about how Alex is dead because of me, about how his wife and daughter are all alone…But if I tell her now, it’ll sound like an excuse. A sympathy ploy.
And nobody knows about those monthly checks to the Skinners. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. I don’t want Olivia thinking I’m a hero. She’ll only be disappointed.
I’m not much in the kitchen, but I throw together a sandwich and open a can of soup. For the first time since Olivia’s come to Maine, I eat dinner by myself, a sad, lonely affair at the kitchen counter.
After I clean up my dishes, I pour the rest of the soup into a bowl and make another sandwich. Turkey, no mayo, lots of cheese, the way I know Olivia likes it, as well as a bottle of water.
As far as peace offerings go, it’s pathetic. I take the sandwich upstairs anyway. The closed door doesn’t bother me.
But the sound of soft sobbing nearly kills me.
Chapter Twenty-One
Olivia
Paul and I don’t talk about what happened.
It’s been nearly two weeks since his father visited. Two weeks since he lost control of his inner bully and my inner patheticness fell victim to it.
Things are weird. I know he thinks I’m mad at him. After so many years in a relationship with Ethan, I can read the signals. There’s a carefulness in the way he talks, as though he’s bracing for me to lose my shit and call him out on something long past.
But while the signals Paul’s giving off are pretty standard guy, this is different from any spat I ever had with Ethan about how he talked to that super-flirty girl with the huge boobs for twenty minutes longer than necessary, or how he was late to pick me up because he and Michael were playing Call of Duty—again. With Ethan, it was as though he was always bracing for a fight. We both knew a mini-explosion was coming and were putting our respective boxing gloves on.
With Paul…there’s a haunted quality to his wariness. Like he’s not just expecting me to lose my shit and throw my eyelash curler in a fit of righteous female rage. No, Paul is braced for something else.
It’s like he’s bracing for me to leave.
We’ve both done our best to pretend that afternoon never happened. We pretend he didn’t belittle my very existence in front of his dad, as though he didn’t say outright that I was a fluffy piece of ass with absolutely zero value to him. I pretend not to care. He pretends not to care that I don’t care.
But like I said, things are weird. Strained. Awful.
Lost in thought, I rinse the lunch dishes and put them into the dishwasher.
“Want to talk about it?”
Startled, I almost drop a water glass. “Lindy! Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
The older woman sniffs. “Probably because you’ve been avoiding me. And Mick.”
I don’t bother to deny it.
“So that’s a no on the talking about it, then?” she asks.
I shrug. We’re silent for several seconds as she goes through the now familiar routine of setting up her KitchenAid mixer and pulling out flour and sugar.
“I’m in a baking mood,” she says. “You pick.”
She doesn’t have to twist my arm. “Chocolate chip?”
Lindy rolls her eyes but smiles. “Boring but easy. Back when I used to let Mr. Paul pick, it was always some complicated tart, or a cake with three different fillings.”
“Really?” I ask, struggling to reconcile the guy who seems to exist on sandwiches and whiskey with someone preferring elaborate sweets.
“Yes, well, that was before he went away,” she says, her smile fading a little. “I’m not sure he’d even notice if I made him a cake now.”