He looks at me sharply. “Is that the only reason you think I care?”
Before I can answer, Thomas walks into the living room. He’s followed by two members of the kitchen staff carrying silver trays.
The first one has a roast chicken that’s charred to perfection and dripping in a delicious-looking golden sauce. The second platter is filled with roasted vegetables.
“Are you two ready for dinner?” Thomas asks.
“Please tell me you’ll be joining us,” I say. “I would so love it.”
Thomas looks uncertain. “Oh, well… I’m not sure…”
“Please,” I say again, hands clasped in front of my face. “I begged Margaret to let me chop potatoes, and now, I’m begging you to eat them with us.”
He flushes happily. “I suppose we can make that happen. Margaret and I would be thrilled. Let me just go tell her now.”
He ducks out of the room and I turn to Anton. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Why would I mind?”
The answer that springs to my lips is, I have no freaking clue what you want and why you want it. I don’t know anything that goes on behind your eyes. You’ve been sweet and you’ve been angry, you’ve been tender and you’ve been cruel. I’m lost in you and I’m drowning in you and I just need you to give me something. Some little thing to cling to. That’s all. I’m not asking for much.
Instead, all I say is, “I don’t know.”
His brood deepens, if that’s even a thing. “You look tired,” he says.
“I’m fine. Like I told you.”
“Still,” he says, wrinkling his nose, “just to be safe, we’ll go to bed after dinner.”
“Oh,” I stutter. “Uh, okay. Just, are we…”
“Yes?”
“Are we getting two rooms or one?”
It seems like an innocent enough question in my head. But the moment I ask it, I realize how loaded it really is.
“Well, it would be odd to ask for two rooms now that they think we’re a married couple, don’t you agree?”
“Oh. Right. Duh.”
My blush must give me away, because he asks, “Something bothering you, Jessa?”
I open my mouth. Now would be the time to just come right out and ask him what our plan is. How I factor into his life now that Marina is alive.
But once again, the words I ought to say just won’t come.
“Maybe I am a little tired,” I say.
“Don’t worry. We’ll have an early dinner and then we can go to bed.”
We can go to bed. I feel like an idiot for being so damn affected by those words. By how normal they sound. How domestic.
So I bury those thoughts in the same dark place I bury all the other ones like them.
But even as I do, I know there’s no way around it.
I want Anton.
I love Anton.
And I’m terrified to the very core of me that I won’t get to keep him.