“Jenna, sweetheart, you’re back,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly drone that always made him sound like he was about to fall asleep.
“I brought these,” I said, setting the tin on the laminate table. The lid made a sharp metal sound against the wood. “They are still warm.”
Gary reached into the tin and pulled out a square, the yellow lemon curd dusting his thumb. He took a bite, closed his eyes, and nodded slowly.
“You always know what I like,” he said, chewing. “Your mother used to make them every June.”
He rubbed his palms against his dark work trousers again before reaching for another. I watched the movement of his hands, wondering how many times I had seen him do that without noticing the tension behind it.
“Who was that on the phone?” I asked.
Gary looked down at the half-eaten bar in his hand, then up at the window over the sink. He did not look at me.
“Just the pharmacy,” he said, his voice slow and heavy. “The blood pressure refill isn’t ready until Tuesday.”
