Written in the Scars(44)

“How’s your class?” I ask, sitting at the table.

“Good.”

“Dustin said you got him out of some trouble last week.”

“He was just going to take it,” she says, looking at me over her shoulder. “He didn’t do it and they weren’t going to look into it because they’d already tried and convicted him in their minds. But I marched him back in the office and had a sit down with the Principal, the tapes were reviewed, and his name was cleared.”

“One of the many reasons I love you.”

Her hand stills mid-chop.

“You know what we need?” I ask, trying to keep her relaxed. “A puppy.”

“We do not need a puppy, Ty.”

“Think about it. When I’m at work, it would keep you company. You could take it on your walks and—”

She turns around and leans against the counter.

“We aren’t getting—”

“A puppy,” I cut her off. “Let’s run up to Terre Haute this weekend and check the pound.”

“Ty,” she whines, clearly frustrated.

“What, baby? Would you rather have a kitten?”

She tosses the knife on the counter and sighs. “This was a bad idea.”

“Well,” I say, smirking, “if you don’t want a pet and want to go straight for the baby, I’m game to try. Just come over here.”

In a flash, her back is to me. Her shoulders are stiff, her spine ramrod straight.

Without thinking, I get to my feet and cross the kitchen and stand behind her. “What did I say?” I ask, letting my hand rest on her shoulder. She nearly jumps at the contact.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, I said something, but I don’t know what.”

She blows out a breath and shakes my hand off her shoulder. Busying herself with dinner, she leaves me standing while she takes everything to the table.

Our eyes never meet, our bodies never touch. There’s an awkwardness that’s wedged itself between us that I can’t budge. Only when she’s sitting at the table does she look at me, still standing where she left me at the stove.

“You coming?” she asks.

I sit across from her and watch her make her plate. “Elin, whatever I said, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

It’s not fine. That much is clear. But I don’t know why.

I make a taco and take a bite, relishing in the taste of home-cooked food. “I heard from Murphy,” I tell her, breaking the silence. “He said the word is the mine will be opening back up soon.”

“You aren’t seriously considering going back to work there.” Her eyes are wide, the fork in her hand falling slowly to the table.

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“Apply at the power plant, the electric company. Go back to school and teach,” she says hurriedly.

“I’ve applied to all of those places. The plant has two slots open and ninety-four candidates. I have to be realistic.”

Reaching across the table, I place my hand on top of hers. She stares at them, her chest rising and falling.

“You can’t go back there,” she chokes out.

Her words spear my heart. She cares. I knew she did, but to hear it encourages me. Somewhere through her anger, despite her filing for divorce, she still wants me. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not buried as deep as I feared.

“Baby, listen to me. There’s no other option to make that kind of money.”

“Life’s not about money.”

“No, but there are bills to pay.” I swallow hard. “And we have a lot less money because of me. I have to be able to give you a decent life, and the best way for me to do that right now is the mine. If something else opens, f*ck yeah, I’ll take it. But we have to be real, E.”

I watch her beautiful face crease with worry, and while I secretly love it, I don’t want to waste our night talking about work.

“They’ve not officially reopened anyway,” I point out, “so this is a discussion for another day. Let’s talk about the puppy.”

She smiles. “No puppies.”

“Kittens?”

“Their pee stinks.”

“All right,” I sigh, shoving away from the table. “Babies it is.”

Standing abruptly, she swipes her plate from the table and dumps it in the trash. “I need to grade those papers.”

“Want me to help?”

She spins on her heels and gives me a look.

“No, really,” I say. “Do you want my help? I have nothing better to do and I can put them in stacks or something?”

A faint smile tickles her lips, but she fights it back.

Pushing to my feet, I start her way. Much to my surprise, she doesn’t back away or stop me. Not to press my luck, I stop inches from her.

I don’t want to leave. I want to pick her up and carry her into our bedroom and show her how much I love her. Brushing a lock of hair out of her face, I touch her for a moment longer than necessary because I need it. I think she does too—maybe more than me.

“You really want me to leave?”

Her nod is almost nonexistent.

I swallow back all the words I really want to say. “I’ll go. But I don’t want to.”