Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
My heart races at the thought of Max coming home, of sitting across from him with Jason between us. I realize I am playing house with Sara’s family, and the thought sours my mood, but I push it away and set about laying the dining table. I find linen in the cupboard and candles. I will make it a meal to remember. White plates check. Silverware check. Bowl of flowers check. Bottle of ruby red wine check, and a bowl of steamed green beans, their vibrant color a compliment to the fried rice.
The front door opens, and Max’s voice calls out. “I’m home.” My pulse spikes, and I smooth my new blue dress, a simple choice from my last shopping spree. It’s not sexy like the black dress, but it makes me feel good and confident.
Jason hops off his stool and runs to greet him. I watch as Max steps into the dining room, his suit jacket gone, tie loose, and his eyes land on the table, then on me, widening with surprise at the apron I’m wearing.
“You cooked?” he asks, his voice low, a flicker of something—memory, maybe—passing through his blue gaze.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice soft, a smile tugging at my lips. I pick the beef and a bowl of buttered steamed green beans and head towards the dining table. “Thought it’d be nice. Plus, it’s your favorite, right?”
He laughs out loud. “Right,” he agrees, but I cannot help but feel slightly uncomfortable, though I’m not sure why. The boys take their seats and are ready to eat.
Jason digs in, and I watch him intently, hoping he will love it as much as his father once did, but his face scrunches after the first bite, his gray eyes narrowing, and my heart sinks a little. He doesn’t like it!
"What's wrong?" I ask.
“It’s… kinda… uh… weird,” he says, glancing uncertainly at his father. His voice is small and almost apologetic as he pushes a piece of beef to the side of his plate.
I’m shocked, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. I spent hours on this meal. It’s Max’s favorite from years ago, a loving memory that I poured into every chop, every stir… and it’s failing.
Max shoots Jason a look, a flash of irritation in his blue eyes. “Don’t be rude and ungrateful, Jason. Aunt Amelia has very kindly taken the time to cook you a meal full of goodness,” he says, his tone firm and commanding. With deliberate purposefulness, his fork pierces a piece of beef. “She used to make this for me years ago. It’s my favorite.”
“This is your favorite?” Jason asks incredulously.
“Yes, it is,” Max says emphatically.
His gaze lifts to mine, intense and steady. “Thank you, Amelia. It’s perfect. Just like I remember.”
His words are a lifeline, and I manage a grateful smile, my lips trembling with the effort. “You’re welcome,” I murmur with relief, but the truth soon becomes clear to me as I dig in as well. The rice is okay, but the spices are a bit overkill, and the beef is quite tough. But still its edible and is just the way I used to make it, so… Max eats enthusiastically so I continue on as well.
“How’s work?” I ask, my voice cutting through the silence, desperate for something normal to tether us.
“Very busy,” he replies and smiles.
I glance at Max, but he is looking at me, and my gaze awkwardly skitters away from his and lands on the wine bottle instead. The label looks pricey. “Always is,” he adds, his fingers brushing the edge of his plate, and the casual motion draws my attention, his hands strong, familiar.
I shift in my seat, my thighs pressing together, trying to ignore the heat his gaze ignites, a warmth that is shameful but undeniable.
Nodding, I force a smile and turn to Jason, hoping to draw him out. “What about you, Jason? Got any fun school stuff going on?” My voice is light, encouraging, but he only shrugs, his eyes fixed on his fork with which he is pushing a green bean in circles.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles, barely audible, and my heart tugs with worry. What’s pulling him so far inward? Is it the absence of Sara, or something deeper?
Without Sara, the silence grows and presses against us, Max’s gaze lingering too long, my skin alive with it, a current I can’t escape. I want to tell him to stop, to look away, because it’s too much, too close to the line we can’t cross, but I can’t find the words, not with Jason here, not with my heart racing.
Eventually, we have our fill. Jason dashes upstairs to his room and Max and I work together to clear away the plates and take them to the kitchen. Max’s voice drops as we load the dishwasher, a note of secrecy threading through it.