I stood at the laminate counter slicing carrots for a pot roast, the blade hitting the wooden cutting board in a steady, dry rhythm. Beside me, Cole sat on a chrome stool with our broken two-slice toaster disassembled between his thick hands. He was using a butter knife to clear a jammed wire, his leather jacket draped over the back of the chair. It smelled of motor oil and the faint, sweet scent of burning oak leaves from the neighbor’s yard. A gallon of milk we had bought that morning for four dollars and ten cents sat on the kitchen table, sweating in the warm air.
I reached into the small utility drawer to find a rubber band, and my fingers brushed against the thick, cream-colored paper of our wedding program. It was the empty one from the front row, the seat where my parents were supposed to sit before they decided our small ceremony was not worth the drive from Maple Street. I kept it tucked away behind the coupons, a quiet reminder of what had been missing. I slid the drawer shut and turned back to the cutting board, twisting the plain silver band on my right index finger.
Cole did not look up when his phone buzzed on the counter. It was a single, dry vibration against the yellow Formica. He reached out with one grease-stained thumb, swiped the screen, and immediately flipped the phone face down. The small kitchen went very quiet, save for the scraping of my knife against the wood.
“Was that the garage?” I asked.
“No,” Cole said. His low, gravelly baritone barely carried over the hum of the refrigerator.
“They still need you for the Saturday shift?”
“They might.” He picked up his screwdriver, his attention fixed entirely on the toaster’s heating element, though his fingers remained perfectly still.
“You look tired,” I said, setting the knife down on the board.
“Just a long week at the shop,” he said.
He did not offer anything else, and I did not press him. We had built our lives in this brick bungalow on the quiet side of Oakhaven, away from the constant, polite scrutiny of my mother and father. Cole was a man of few words, and I had learned to find comfort in his quietness, believing it meant he had nothing to hide.
