She’d told him to wait. Just wait. Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t help.
The kitchen island was cold against her palms when she leaned forward, and he saw exactly what she’d planned — exactly which part of the evening he was supposed to be patient through.
He’d been patient through worse, for less. The garage door opening at three a.m. that one September. The way she always paused before the part of the story she knew would land. The four months she’d spent deciding whether she’d ever come back, and the eight seconds she took deciding she would.
Three buttons came undone before she said his name. She always said it like the answer to a question he hadn’t been brave enough to ask.
He didn’t move. He didn’t speak.
He’d been told to wait.