That quiet way Diane had of saying something gentle and devastating at the same time. I should have let it pass. Instead, I asked, "Did she talk about me after we broke up?" Diane set the knife down, not dramatically, carefully. Yes. That was all enough to make my stomach tighten.
I looked toward the back window where the repaired gate stood almost straight now. What did she say? Diane turned to face me. Caleb that bad? No.
She wiped her hands on a cloth. Not bad in the way you mean. Then how? She seemed to choose each word before letting it go. She said you were kind, reliable, safe.
A small sadness moved through her expression, but she said those words like they were reasons to leave. I looked down. That hurt. Not because I hadn't suspected it, because hearing it from Diane made it impossible to pretend I had misunderstood. She wanted more, I said.
Diane's voice softened. She wanted louder. That sentence went through me clean. I didn't answer. She stepped closer to the counter, close enough to reach past me for the glasses.
Not touching me, not even almost, but close enough that I noticed the scent of soap on her skin and lemon from the cutting board. My mind said, "Lawrence mother, my body, traitor that it was, noticed she was a woman standing close to me in a quiet kitchen. I moved aside too quickly," Diane noticed. Of course, she did. A faint flush touched her face.
"Sorry, you didn't do anything." "I know." She looked at the plates still. That was the strange thing between us. Neither of us had done anything wrong, but the air kept behaving like we had approached something we were not supposed to name. We ate at the small table near the window, not the dining room. That mattered.
The dining room belonged to old family dinners, holidays. Lauren laughing too loudly while I helped to clear plates. The kitchen table felt different, less formal, more dangerous because it was ordinary. For a while, we talked about safe things, the storm, the neighborhood, work. She asked about the renovation company, and I told her about a house we were restoring on the east side, an old craftsman place with good bones and terrible plumbing.
Her eyes lit up when I described the original woodwork. "You always liked fixing what other people wanted to replace," she said. I smiled faintly. "Sometimes replacement is easier. Easier isn't always better.
No, we both heard the other meaning. Neither of us touched it. Halfway through lunch, her phone rang on the counter. Diane glanced at the screen. Her expression changed.
Not fear, not guilt. Complication. Lauren? I asked. Diane nodded.
You can answer. I know. She didn't. The phone stopped then immediately started again. This time, Diane sighed and picked it up.