Chapter 7: Eleven Steps

By Thursday I had learned three things about my husband.

He snored when he was exhausted, softly.

He read every email twice and every contract three times.

And he could not make macaroni and cheese.

"It's supposed to be creamy," he said, staring at the pot.

"It's supposed to not be black."

"The recipe said medium heat."

"Which recipe?"

He held up his phone, where a blog with a very cheerful woman in an apron said to cook it for fifteen minutes.

"For the noodles, Matthias. Not for the whole pot, with the lid on and a call about a truck in Duluth."

"It was an urgent truck."

I took the wooden spoon out of his hand and he surrendered it.

I rinsed the pot, boiled new noodles and made a sauce with butter, flour and the sharpest cheddar in his enormous refrigerator.

He leaned against the counter and watched.

"Your hands are quick," he said.

"They've stocked a freezer for six years."

"Mine are slow."

"Yours are careful. There's a difference."

He didn't say anything to that, but he stayed close, close enough that I smelled cedar and warm soap every time I turned.

We ate at the kitchen island, side by side, because the dining table was a forty-foot slab of walnut that made me want to whisper.

"Is this all the house is for?" I said. "Eating alone on a counter?"

"I don't use most of it."

"You have a cinema room."

"I've seen one film in it."

"Which?"

"A documentary about locks."

I put my fork down.

"You're joking."

"I'm not. It was excellent. They talked about tumblers for two hours."

I laughed so hard I had to hold the edge of the counter.

He watched me laugh with a look I couldn't read.

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