“I brought your bags in,” he said. “The bathroom is across the hall. There are towels in the cabinet.”
I looked at the single bedroom.
“And where will you sleep?”
“The sofa.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I do if you’re uncomfortable sharing a room.”
“I’m not uncomfortable.”
The words came out too quickly.
Silas raised one eyebrow.
“I mean, I’m not uncomfortable because of you.”
“I understood.”
“I just don’t want you sleeping on the sofa in your own home.”
“It’s one night.”
“We’re married.”
“We are.”
“Then perhaps we should at least try to act like two people who chose this.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“We didn’t choose it.”
“No,” I said. “But we can choose what happens next.”
Something shifted in his expression.
Not desire. Not surprise.
Respect.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll share the room. The bed is wide enough.”
I set my bag on the dresser.
For the first time since leaving the courthouse, I felt the faint possibility that the day might not have ruined my life entirely.
Silas had made soup. We ate at a small wooden table near the kitchen window while rain began tapping against the roof.
The meal was simple and good.
“You cook,” I said.
“Sometimes.”
“This is more than sometimes.”
“Before my grandmother died, she made me cook every Sunday.”
“Was she a good teacher?”
“She believed burning toast was a character flaw.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Silas looked pleased.
“Did you learn?”
“To make toast?”
“To avoid character flaws.”
“I’m still working on it.”
The warmth between us felt unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable.
