Daniel’s fingernails tapped against the side of his glass, a quick, dry clicking sound that filled our small kitchen in Grand Rapids. He had the leather-bound mileage notebook open on the counter right next to his real estate brochures. The brochures were the new ones, printed on thick glossy paper that he often reminded me cost forty cents each to produce.
I stood by the cutting board, packing our lunches into the insulated bags we used every day. I twisted the plain silver band on my right index finger, moving it up and down against my knuckle as I watched him.
“Claire,” he said, his voice dropping into that soft, low register he always used when he was about to point out a mistake. “Did you take the bypass on your way back from the school board meeting on Thursday?”
“No,” I said, pausing before I spoke. “I took the usual route down Beltline.”
“Because the odometer on the sedan is showing forty-two thousand, eight hundred and ten miles,” he said, tapping his fingernails on the glass again. “But according to your log entry from Friday morning, it should only be forty-two thousand, six hundred and sixty.”
“I must have written it down wrong,” I said.
He looked up from the notebook, his eyes locking onto mine with a steady, quiet intensity that made me pull my hand away from my ring.
“You must have written the odometer reading down wrong last week,” he said.
“I am sure that is what happened,” I said.
“It is just that we have to be very precise with the tax write-offs this quarter,” he said, his tone perfectly even, almost sweet. “Every single mile counts when the market is this slow.”
He closed the notebook with a quiet slide of leather against the laminate counter and reached for his briefcase.
“I will double-check the dashboard before I leave for the office,” I said.
“Good,” he said, giving me a quick, dry kiss on the cheek. “We cannot afford any sloppy mistakes right now.”
He walked out to his car, leaving the kitchen smelling of his cologne and the cold autumn air that had slipped in through the side door.
