cabinets until she found plates. He added mayonnaise, mustard and pickle relish—something he enjoyed—to the gathering of sandwich fixings on the counter.
“But you said it with a tone.” A tone he remembered all too well—a tone that said nothing meant everything and ignoring it would just cause a fight.
The last thing he wanted.
She circled the island and made it to the pantry ahead of him. She pulled out three bags. One each of pretzels, chips and dried apple crisps. They circled each other, dodging with an expert ease. Anna added the bags to the counter, setting each item at an exact angle and in the order they’d need to build sandwiches.
“I didn’t say it with a tone.” Her voice climbed a half note with exasperation.
“You did.” He pulled open a drawer and took out a knife. He flipped the bread onto the plates and nudged the drawer shut with his hip. “Your shoulders are stiff, your eyes are tired and there’s tension in your jaw. You were uneasy earlier but willing to work with us. This afternoon, you’re tense, solemn and quiet—ergo, your nothing is definitely something.”
“Oh for the love of God, Charlie. Let it go.” She banged her hands against the island for emphasis.
He cocked his head to the side and met her irritation steadily. “No. This works if we talk—not if we ignore it.”
“What this? Making sandwiches requires conversation?”
Counting to twenty in his head—in three languages—helped. “Being together. We left a lot unsaid—and I’d rather we didn’t add any more items to that list. You’re going to be staying here and we’re going to spend a lot of time together.” He ignored the internal fist pump at the idea—it lacked a certain decorum and he was pretty certain she wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.
He spread mayonnaise onto the bread, added a layer of mustard across it and chose three slices of Swiss and two of the turkey before repeating the process with the top slice of bread.
“We’re working together. There’s a difference.” The deflection was so poor it didn’t deserve a comment.
“We have a personal history that cannot be filed and put away.” He stacked the sandwich together and cut it in half before sliding the plate over to her. Flipping his own bread over, he added the relish and a very thin smear of mustard to opposite pieces of bread. He added turkey, ham and American cheese to his. Sparing her a glance, he found her staring at her sandwich. “Now what’s wrong?”
“You—you—” She stuttered. She never stuttered. It was almost as endearing as the fact that she called him Charlie.
“You still like your water in a bottle, your turkey with lots of Swiss and you hate mustard with any other type of sandwich. Now eat it—you’re too pale.” He released her gaze and finished fixing his, taking the time to put the lids back on the containers. But rather than eat, she put it all away and he sighed.
“This is hard—” She spoke to the refrigerator, but he would take what he could get. She put the items back in slowly, too slowly.
“I know. I wish I could make it easier for you.”
“No—believe it or not, the whole death threat thing, that’s still surreal and not really sinking in. Being here with you—that’s what’s hard.” She rearranged the condiment shelf, putting like with like.
Adding order to chaos.
“I don’t know what to call you. Is your name Armand or is it Charlie? Should I say Your Highness—which apparently you don’t like—or maybe Mister Dagmar? Or is it Andraste...? I don’t know how to do this...” She turned, closing the fridge. Her expression was tense and stricken. “The press was all over that boy’s house and he handled it beautifully. I have a dozen more kids just like him that I have to meet. How do I do that with the press on my heels? What am I supposed to do?”
“You can eat your sandwich.” He set down his and wiped his hands on a napkin before reaching over to open
“But you said it with a tone.” A tone he remembered all too well—a tone that said nothing meant everything and ignoring it would just cause a fight.
The last thing he wanted.
She circled the island and made it to the pantry ahead of him. She pulled out three bags. One each of pretzels, chips and dried apple crisps. They circled each other, dodging with an expert ease. Anna added the bags to the counter, setting each item at an exact angle and in the order they’d need to build sandwiches.
“I didn’t say it with a tone.” Her voice climbed a half note with exasperation.
“You did.” He pulled open a drawer and took out a knife. He flipped the bread onto the plates and nudged the drawer shut with his hip. “Your shoulders are stiff, your eyes are tired and there’s tension in your jaw. You were uneasy earlier but willing to work with us. This afternoon, you’re tense, solemn and quiet—ergo, your nothing is definitely something.”
“Oh for the love of God, Charlie. Let it go.” She banged her hands against the island for emphasis.
He cocked his head to the side and met her irritation steadily. “No. This works if we talk—not if we ignore it.”
“What this? Making sandwiches requires conversation?”
Counting to twenty in his head—in three languages—helped. “Being together. We left a lot unsaid—and I’d rather we didn’t add any more items to that list. You’re going to be staying here and we’re going to spend a lot of time together.” He ignored the internal fist pump at the idea—it lacked a certain decorum and he was pretty certain she wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.
He spread mayonnaise onto the bread, added a layer of mustard across it and chose three slices of Swiss and two of the turkey before repeating the process with the top slice of bread.
“We’re working together. There’s a difference.” The deflection was so poor it didn’t deserve a comment.
“We have a personal history that cannot be filed and put away.” He stacked the sandwich together and cut it in half before sliding the plate over to her. Flipping his own bread over, he added the relish and a very thin smear of mustard to opposite pieces of bread. He added turkey, ham and American cheese to his. Sparing her a glance, he found her staring at her sandwich. “Now what’s wrong?”
“You—you—” She stuttered. She never stuttered. It was almost as endearing as the fact that she called him Charlie.
“You still like your water in a bottle, your turkey with lots of Swiss and you hate mustard with any other type of sandwich. Now eat it—you’re too pale.” He released her gaze and finished fixing his, taking the time to put the lids back on the containers. But rather than eat, she put it all away and he sighed.
“This is hard—” She spoke to the refrigerator, but he would take what he could get. She put the items back in slowly, too slowly.
“I know. I wish I could make it easier for you.”
“No—believe it or not, the whole death threat thing, that’s still surreal and not really sinking in. Being here with you—that’s what’s hard.” She rearranged the condiment shelf, putting like with like.
Adding order to chaos.
“I don’t know what to call you. Is your name Armand or is it Charlie? Should I say Your Highness—which apparently you don’t like—or maybe Mister Dagmar? Or is it Andraste...? I don’t know how to do this...” She turned, closing the fridge. Her expression was tense and stricken. “The press was all over that boy’s house and he handled it beautifully. I have a dozen more kids just like him that I have to meet. How do I do that with the press on my heels? What am I supposed to do?”
“You can eat your sandwich.” He set down his and wiped his hands on a napkin before reaching over to open
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