Page 48

Dinah

The motion light on the right side of the house comes on, and he appears, his long shadow stretching forward and bobbing along the grass as he heads this way.

I move away from the glass door and enter our bedroom, passing through and flipping on the light to the bathroom, my movements quick and practiced as I turn on the shower and drop a bath towel into the warmer.

I’m settling into my recliner in the living room when Joe stomps on the mat and pulls open the slider. Leaning forward, he loosens the laces on one boot and then the other before stepping out of both of them and into the house.

“Shower’s running,” I call out. “Hurry, dinner’s getting cold.”

“Bless and thank you,” he says. “I’m a mess.”

He looks it. He’s covered in a layer of ash and soot and stinks of smoke. Ducking through the room, he beelines for the shower.

I fix our plates and am pouring him a glass of red wine when he comes out of our room, his hair wet and messy, his skin pink, smelling of the pine-and-eucalyptus body wash he orders online. It costs a ridiculous amount but is cocaine to my nose.

“There’s still a couple of hours left in the burn if you want to sit out there after dinner.” He pulls out his seat and grabs a paper towel off the roll in the center of the table.

“Actually, I’m exhausted.” I place his plate in front of him and take my own to my spot, snagging my fork off the table as I settle into the seat across from him.

The lasagna is still hot, and I use the edge of the fork to section off a piece, the cheese stretching as I pull it away from the rest. “I think I’ll take a hot bath and then hit the bed. ”

He nods, his jaw already working, his fork quick as he stabs at the stack. He’s always starving after working outside. There’s something about the fresh air, the manual labor ... I could have burnt the lasagna to a crisp and he would still inhale it.

I slow my eating, taking time to sip my wine in between bites. As I watch, his plate empties until his fork scrapes across the china. I rise. “Want more?”

“Yes, please.” He picks up his wineglass, and between the merlot and the pills, he’ll be asleep in an hour, maybe sooner.

I reach for his plate and hope he doesn’t notice the way my hand trembles.