She lay back on the bed and looked at the ceiling she had looked at since she was nine. “I hate that you’re better at this than I am.”
“I’m not better. I’m practiced.” He said it without bitterness. “I’ll be there at six-thirty if we’re still doing Saturday. If we’re not, say so before I get my good sneakers involved.”
She laughed, and the laugh saved the week. “We’re doing Saturday. Bring the sneakers.”
“Already clean,” he said. “Don’t make it a whole coronation, Sarah. It’s dinner.”
“It’s dinner,” she repeated, and tried to believe the repetition.
On Thursday Claire called her sister in another state and did not call it advice. She called it checking in. Her sister said, “Richard will rise to it. He always does when people are watching.” Claire said, “That’s what I’m afraid of. He rises into a speech.” Her sister told her to give him a job, because men behaved better with jobs. Claire said his job was to say hello and sit down. Her sister said that was not a job, that was a miracle, and they both laughed, and after the laugh Claire felt more alone than before the call.
On Friday Richard came home early and found Sarah at the kitchen island filling out a form for a summer job at the library. He kissed the top of her head, a habit from years when she was short enough for it to be simple. She was not short now. The kiss landed awkwardly and they both pretended it had not.
“Big day tomorrow,” he said.
“It’s just dinner.”
“I’ll be nice.”
She looked up so quickly he almost stepped back. “Don’t say it like a favor.”