in knots about this.”
“You know what? You’re right.” I swig the remainder of the wine and head to the liquor cabinet in the lounge room, pulling a bottle of Elijah’s favourite whiskey and two scotch glasses from the cupboard. I stalk back into the kitchen and pour us both a generous drink.
“He still drinking that shit? Jesus, I always said he had fucking Dom Pérignon taste on a water budget.”
“To Elijah, then, and his impeccable taste,” I say, and clink the glasses against one another before sliding his across the bench toward him.
“Look, you can tell me it’s none of my business—”
“It’s none of your business,” I say with a harsh smile, and take another sip before setting about frying the onions he just finished chopping.
“Okay then,” he says. “Ana, he’s crazy about you.”
“I don’t wanna hear it, Kick.”
“I mean, she’s hot, but come on, have you seen a mirror lately … or ever?” he adds that last part in a whisper, as if he’s embarrassed to say it.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Okay, then you don’t wanna know that I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. You’re all he thinks about. The Ethan—” He shakes his head. “—the Elijah—God, it feels weird calling him that—I know, or used to know, would have laughed at the thought of settling down, of screwing just one woman—”
“You know, this really isn’t helping.”
My phone rings, and I glare accusingly at Elijah’s face as it flashes up on the screen. It’s a shot I took while he was lying in bed. He has bed hair, sleepy, sultry eyes, and he’s sticking his middle finger up at me. This is perhaps my favourite photo of him—he’s so perfect in his imperfections. I kinda hate him right now. I slam the phone back down on the counter, and meet Kick’s quizzical stare. “You not gonna answer that?”
“Wasn’t planning on it. No.”
Kick picks up the phone and presses answer. “Hey, man. No, she’s here, she’s just got her hands full with dinner. Yeah, I’ll put her on.” He holds the phone to his chest and smiles at me boldly. “Ana, your husband needs to talk to you.”
I glare at him, and snatch the phone from his outstretched hand. I cover the receiver and whisper, “I hate you.”
“You’re welcome,” he mouths back with a cocky smile.
“Hi, honey.” My voice is overly perky. I wonder if it’s coming across Elijah’s end of the line as strained as it feels.
“Hey, baby girl,” Elijah says, and he sounds the way he does when he walks through the door after a long day. I feel my anger soften, before the thought of him and Nicole in the workshop eats me alive with jealousy again, and turns my heart to acid-like bile in my throat. “I gotta stay back late. You okay there at the house by yourself with Kick?”
“Yeah, I’m actually getting help with dinner. It’s a nice change,” I retort.
“What’s up with you?”
“Nothing. I gotta go, dinner’s about to burn. I’ll save you a plate,” I say in my cheeriest voice.
I don’t know whether it’s the heat from the stove or the fact that I just downed half a bottle of wine in ten seconds flat, along with a really large glass of scotch, but I feel hot and itchy, and yeah, kinda dizzy. I stumble on my way to retrieve a wooden spoon from the drawer, and catch myself on the counter before falling.
“Maybe you should sit down and let me do that.”
“I got it, thanks,” I say, and turn back to my onions to find they’re pitch-black and smoking on the stove. “God damn it.”
I remove the pan from the heat, but I forget my pot-holder and scorch my palm in the process. I let out a long stream of expletives, and run the burn under cold water, turning my face away from the mushroom-shaped cloud of steam coming off the pan in the sink beside me.
“Fuck, Ana, are you okay?”
I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain. “Yeah. That will teach me cook when
“You know what? You’re right.” I swig the remainder of the wine and head to the liquor cabinet in the lounge room, pulling a bottle of Elijah’s favourite whiskey and two scotch glasses from the cupboard. I stalk back into the kitchen and pour us both a generous drink.
“He still drinking that shit? Jesus, I always said he had fucking Dom Pérignon taste on a water budget.”
“To Elijah, then, and his impeccable taste,” I say, and clink the glasses against one another before sliding his across the bench toward him.
“Look, you can tell me it’s none of my business—”
“It’s none of your business,” I say with a harsh smile, and take another sip before setting about frying the onions he just finished chopping.
“Okay then,” he says. “Ana, he’s crazy about you.”
“I don’t wanna hear it, Kick.”
“I mean, she’s hot, but come on, have you seen a mirror lately … or ever?” he adds that last part in a whisper, as if he’s embarrassed to say it.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Okay, then you don’t wanna know that I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. You’re all he thinks about. The Ethan—” He shakes his head. “—the Elijah—God, it feels weird calling him that—I know, or used to know, would have laughed at the thought of settling down, of screwing just one woman—”
“You know, this really isn’t helping.”
My phone rings, and I glare accusingly at Elijah’s face as it flashes up on the screen. It’s a shot I took while he was lying in bed. He has bed hair, sleepy, sultry eyes, and he’s sticking his middle finger up at me. This is perhaps my favourite photo of him—he’s so perfect in his imperfections. I kinda hate him right now. I slam the phone back down on the counter, and meet Kick’s quizzical stare. “You not gonna answer that?”
“Wasn’t planning on it. No.”
Kick picks up the phone and presses answer. “Hey, man. No, she’s here, she’s just got her hands full with dinner. Yeah, I’ll put her on.” He holds the phone to his chest and smiles at me boldly. “Ana, your husband needs to talk to you.”
I glare at him, and snatch the phone from his outstretched hand. I cover the receiver and whisper, “I hate you.”
“You’re welcome,” he mouths back with a cocky smile.
“Hi, honey.” My voice is overly perky. I wonder if it’s coming across Elijah’s end of the line as strained as it feels.
“Hey, baby girl,” Elijah says, and he sounds the way he does when he walks through the door after a long day. I feel my anger soften, before the thought of him and Nicole in the workshop eats me alive with jealousy again, and turns my heart to acid-like bile in my throat. “I gotta stay back late. You okay there at the house by yourself with Kick?”
“Yeah, I’m actually getting help with dinner. It’s a nice change,” I retort.
“What’s up with you?”
“Nothing. I gotta go, dinner’s about to burn. I’ll save you a plate,” I say in my cheeriest voice.
I don’t know whether it’s the heat from the stove or the fact that I just downed half a bottle of wine in ten seconds flat, along with a really large glass of scotch, but I feel hot and itchy, and yeah, kinda dizzy. I stumble on my way to retrieve a wooden spoon from the drawer, and catch myself on the counter before falling.
“Maybe you should sit down and let me do that.”
“I got it, thanks,” I say, and turn back to my onions to find they’re pitch-black and smoking on the stove. “God damn it.”
I remove the pan from the heat, but I forget my pot-holder and scorch my palm in the process. I let out a long stream of expletives, and run the burn under cold water, turning my face away from the mushroom-shaped cloud of steam coming off the pan in the sink beside me.
“Fuck, Ana, are you okay?”
I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain. “Yeah. That will teach me cook when
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