Chapter 6: Spare Room

Daniel tore open a bandage with his teeth and said, "Hold still."

"It's a scratch."

"It's a chipped dinner plate, and you carried it out bleeding in front of nine women."

I sat on the edge of his kitchen counter with my right palm turned up.

A china rim had cut me across the heel of the hand while I helped the movers, and I had not felt it until the car.

He had a small townhouse in the city, with a bare kitchen and one good knife.

The spare room down the hall had fresh sheets on the bed.

I had not asked him to make it up, and he had not said that he had.

He cleaned the cut with a wet cloth.

His fingers were warm and slow.

His thumb pressed gently into the center of my palm to hold the skin flat, and I felt that thumb in my chest.

That was strange, so I looked at the refrigerator.

"You said tonight," I said.

"I did."

He pressed the bandage down and did not let go of my hand.

"In August, the board dinner at the Harbor Grill. You left early with a migraine."

"I remember."

"After you left, Brodie stayed for another hour. He had four drinks. A director asked him how it felt to be married to the founder."

He looked at the bandage, not at me.

"He said, 'Susannah's my little project that pays. Give it two years and the company's ours.'"

The refrigerator hummed.

I took my hand back.

"Who was at the table?"

"Three directors. The head of finance. Me."

"And what did you say?"

"Nothing."

I waited for the rest.

"I said, 'Excuse me,' and went to the bathroom. When I came back, he was telling a story about a golf trip."

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