You Deserve Each Other(67)

Societal norms have conditioned me into thinking I need these dying plants in order to feel loved and appreciated. They’re objectively useless and I know that. But it’s the thought I’ll remember, not the color of the flower or how pretty it is. The gesture of Nicholas seeing the flower, thinking about me, and going and getting a ladder in order to pick it is going to stay with me. Watching him drop it into my favorite blue-green drinking glass is going to stay with me.

When I’m finished getting dressed and ready, Nicholas is wearing a green henley I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him before, and it makes the jade in his color-shifting eyes spark. The neckline is wide enough that I get a good look at his collarbones. Good heavens. The man’s got a fabulous set of collarbones. Then I notice the rounded caps of his shoulders. The heavens are very good, indeed.

He’s whistling as he fills the sink with soapy water and starts washing dishes for the first time all year. I gape at Changeling Nicholas and give myself heart problems.

He’s styled his hair differently, letting the soft curls fall loosely across his forehead instead of slicking them back. I helplessly draw closer, until I’m definitely invading his personal space. Is it the hair? The shirt? The flower? The fact that he’s doing housework unasked? Whatever it is, he’s a hundred times hotter today. If he starts sweeping the floor and cleaning out lint traps, I might need smelling salts.

Nicholas’s busy hands in the sink fall still when I touch his face. “You have a nice jawline,” I tell him, hearing the wonder in my voice.

He blinks as he looks away. “Um. Thank you.”

“Your throat, too.” It’s a tragedy that I haven’t noticed what a nice throat he has. Who knew nice throats were a thing?

My unabashed ogling is doing things to him; his throat turns red and splotchy before my eyes. I twirl my flower and watch him do the dishes like a total creep until I get myself together. Whenever I break my gaze I feel his moving over me, and I’m pulled back in again. He keeps catching me sneaking sideways looks at him, and I’m positive he’s caught me silently mouthing Oh my god. The more flustered I get, the wider his smile grows.

I don’t analyze it too deeply when I decide I need to change into a better shirt and touch up my lipstick. It’s Thanksgiving, and that’s the only reason I camouflage my micro-bangs with a headband and curl my hair. You have to look your best on the holidays. You have to switch out your beige bra for black lace and spritz yourself with body spray called DEVOUR ME. I don’t make these rules.

I discover a unicorn in the bathroom: he’s wiped down the sink after shaving. There isn’t a single hair clinging to the faucet. It’s the invasion of the body snatchers.

It’s this detail that makes me generous enough to go start the car and get it warmed up for us. As I lumber out into the cold to switch on the ignition, I am a hero. I’m the most selfless fiancée who ever lived. I nearly slip on a patch of ice and for a split second I imagine myself in a hospital bed, leg raised up in one of those sling thingies, Nicholas fussing over me and fluffing my pillow. I don’t even complain about my broken leg. It’s nothing, I say stoically. I’m just grateful it wasn’t you who fell. Nicholas weeps at my strength. He’s never met another woman this amazing.

“Thank you,” he says as we’re pulling out of the driveway. “Nice and warm in here.” He catches me goggling at his profile again and smiles. He really is something luminous when he shows his happiness, isn’t he?

I need to get a grip. Sure, he presented me with a single half-dead flower and his hair is behaving quite seductively today, but we sleep in separate bedrooms, for pete’s sake. It wasn’t that long ago that I was fantasizing about rolling up my wedding dress into a ball and joyously watching it burn in the fireplace. In spite of any seemingly positive developments that surely won’t last, I need to focus on the game plan here. Just as soon as I can remember what that is. He’s sprinkling some kind of witchcraft on me to make it hard to think straight.

“Where are you going?” I ask when he turns on his right blinker.

“That craft place up here,” he replies, confirming my fears. Let’s Get Crafty is the job that I really, really want and was supposed to hear a decision on three days after the interview. That was last week, and the manager still hasn’t contacted me. I think about following up with them every minute of every day, but if I have to nudge in the first place then I know they’re probably leaning toward no. At least in limbo I can nurse my delusions.

“I thought we’d just go to Walmart in Beaufort.”

He shoots me a strange look. “Haven’t you been badgering me to shop more locally? Going to Walmart for everything is the reason why all our stores in Morris have closed down.” We both think of the Junk Yard, which still smarts.

I’m a traitor to my principles when I reply, “Yeah, but the smaller stores are probably more expensive.”

“It’ll be fine.”

I’m grasping at straws. “We’re on a one-person income now.”

“Relax, Naomi.” He parks and squeezes my hand, then slides out of the car. I can’t go into this store. They’ll think I’m stalking them. They’ll recognize me. Someone will mention the application in front of Nicholas, who doesn’t know I’m still job hunting. He assumes I’ve given up because I don’t talk about it. The only news I have to report so far is bad news, which I’m not raring to broadcast. I’d planned on telling him only when I received good news, which may never happen.