I needed to get out of the bed to show Sophie that we were safe.
“Let us go find him,” I said.
The wooden stairs took ten minutes of slow, shuffling agony, my right side doing all the work while my left leg dragged behind.
In the kitchen, a pot of water was boiling over onto the stove, sending up gray plumes of steam that hissed against the metal burners. A sticky puddle of starch was already forming on the clean linoleum floor.
David stood by the sink, staring down at his phone with his thumb moving rapidly across the screen. He did not look up when the hot water splattered onto his leather shoes.
“David, the water,” I said, leaning my weight against the doorframe to keep from sliding down.
He blinked, slid his phone into his trousers pocket, and turned down the gas burner with a sudden, jerky twist of his wrist.
“I was just checking the new commercial listings in Upper Arlington,” he said.
As he spoke, his fingers reached down to adjust the heavy silver wristwatch his mother had bought him for his birthday. It was a familiar gesture, one he always made when he wanted to smooth over a rough moment.
“Could I have a glass of water, please?” I asked. “My pills are in the white bag.”
David let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to fill the small kitchen. He reached for a glass from the cupboard without looking at me.
“I’m doing the best I can, Claire,” he said, his voice carrying that smooth, polite reassurance he used with his real estate clients. “It has been an incredibly long week for me too.”
I took the glass from him, our fingers brushing for a second. His skin was warm and dry, while mine felt like ice.
