Chapter 7: The Whole Answer

On Wednesday, Tristan was home at seven forty-five with a grocery bag and a plan.

I know it was a plan because he said so.

"I have a plan."

"Is it on the calendar?"

"It is not. It's a dinner."

He took off his jacket, rolled his sleeves to the elbow and put his phone in the junk drawer.

He closed the drawer with his hip.

I looked at his collar, which was open, and found no chain.

Ivy's ring had followed me home from the restaurant, and I had not asked him about it.

I did not ask now, either.

"Rule three," he said. "Ask about her day and listen to the answer."

"You've been practicing."

"I've been rehearsing since Monday. How was your day, Vivian?"

I sat down at the kitchen table.

It's a dangerous thing to ask me.

"Well," I said. "At eight, the client call. They wanted the forecast by Friday."

"The same Friday as the form."

"And the walk-and-talk. Friday is crowded."

He nodded, cracking an egg into a pan.

"At nine-thirty, the printer on twelve jammed with my slides inside it."

I leaned forward.

"Do you know who clears a jam? Nobody. It belongs to everyone and no one."

"Go on."

"At eleven, my father texted me a photo of a bookshelf he built."

"Nice shelf?"

"The caption said, 'For a future home.'"

"What home?"

"He doesn't say. He's a man of mysteries."

Tristan turned off the burner.

He pulled out the chair across from me, sat, and folded his hands on the table.

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