Slip of the Tongue (Slip of the Tongue 1)

I lean my shoulder against the doorframe. “Did you have fun?”

“Bowling? Not really.” He glances over his shoulder and opens his mouth as if he’s going to launch into some story about how dumb his friends act when they’re drunk. I’ve heard it before. Instead, he says, “It was fine.”

“Oh. Did you move to the couch last night?”

“No. Why?”

“Your side of the bed is made.”

“That’s what you get for marrying a neat freak. Almost made it with you in it.”

I smile a little. He hands me my coffee and gets milk out of the fridge. As he’s shutting the door, he stops and looks back inside. “You drank beer last night?”

I take a sip from my mug. He wouldn’t question me if I said yes, but why would I lie? Our neighbor came over for dinner. Our neighbor, whose name I didn’t want to know, and who is noticeably, ruggedly handsome, came over to avoid a second trip to the diner in one day.

If our roles were reversed, though, I’m not sure I’d be so understanding. Women love Nathan, his boyish charm and infectious smile. A fool could see why. If he had someone in my apartment while I was gone, I wouldn’t like it. Not that he’d turn anyone away. I was being polite, and Nathan would’ve done the same.

“And wine?” Nate asks, picking up the half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir from a shelf inside the door. “Should I be worried?”

“Someone came over,” I say.

“Who? Jill? She hates beer.”

“No. We have a new neighbor in 6A, finally someone our age.” I drink more from my mug. Nathan meets my eyes over the lip. “He hadn’t unpacked his kitchen yet, so I invited him in for dinner.”

“He?”

“Yes. Is that okay?”

He slowly replaces the wine in its spot. “Of course. It’s fine.” He shuts the door, and I can practically hear him thinking.

“What?” I prompt, curious. Seeing as I don’t really talk about other men much, it isn’t often I get to see his reaction when I do.

“You cooked for him?” he asks.

Aha. Nathan and his meals. He eats with love what I make with love, always. Even now, it’s one thing we haven’t lost. I shuffle a little closer to him, taking advantage of the chance to comfort him. “I felt bad,” I say with a shrug. “Also, his radiator something-or-other broke, and he can’t shut it off. He doesn’t seem to be dealing well with the heat.”

“Huh. Playing phone tag with the super?”

“Sounds like it.”

He laughs to himself. “Just like when we moved in, only the opposite. Bastard should be thankful he’s got heat at all.”

“That’s what I said.” With a tiny bit of hesitation, but still more than I’m used to, I wrap my arms around Nate’s middle. It’s not the least bit soft—he dedicates a weekly gym session to abdominals, after all—but it’s my happy place. I smell his aftershave. There’s a new, subtle scent too, though. It must be the styling pomade that appeared on the bathroom counter a few weeks ago. “I was thinking about that too. Thank God I was sleeping next to a human heater. Remember how cold it was?”

“Not really,” he says. “I was too happy to notice.”

I look up. From this angle, I can clearly see the dark circles under his eyes. The lines around his frown. They make me ache from my core, because I know something is keeping him up at night. Part of it must be his dad’s declining health. But there’s more too, and it has to do with me.

“Our first real place together,” he says. “We were so happy.”

“Are happy, honey. It’s a good memory, but I’m just as happy now as I was then.” We may be going through a rough patch, but it isn’t enough to erase the last seven years. “Aren’t you?”

“This apartment is just—cramped.” He flexes his muscles against me. “It would be nice to have more space.”

“You think? We’d be hard pressed to find anything bigger for what we’re paying.”

“In Manhattan, yes.”

“Yes,” I repeat, “but where else is there?”

“I don’t know.” He checks his watch. “I have to go. Can you take Ginger out?”

Ginger is already sitting by the front door, ready for her morning walk. Nate started the tradition when she was a puppy. Back then, it was an excuse to smoke a cigarette. He quit years ago, though, worried tobacco could lower sperm count. He and Ginger continued their morning routine.

I sigh. “If this is going to be a habit,” I say, since it’s the same argument we had yesterday, “I need to know so I can wake up a few minutes earlier.”

“And I’ve walked her almost every morning the last four years without complaint.” He tries to pull away, but I hold fast. Argument or not, I’m not ready for the moment to end. “I’ve only asked you to do it a few times,” he says.

“But you love it. You used to joke she was the only woman you’d been on more dates with than me.”

He tenses. “Sadie. I have to go.”

“All right, all right. I just want to stand with you a minute and tell you I love—”

“Sadie—can you—” He pushes my shoulder a little harder than I think he means. I stumble back. He whirls around to brace himself against the sink. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

I’m shaken by the shove, but it vanishes when he heaves. I’ve only seen him throw up once or twice since I’ve known him. I touch his back. “Honey?”

He takes a couple deep breaths. “Hang on. It’s passing.”

Once I see it’s not serious, I lose my fight against a smile. “So,” I tease, “not wasted, huh?”

He shakes his head, his knuckles white.

I run my hand down his spine. “Call in. You must have a ton of sick days saved up. You never use them.”

“I’m saving them. In case my dad—you know. He might need me.” He pushes off the counter and turns, his hand at his stomach. “I can go over to the neighbor’s after work and take a look at the radiator.”

Nathan and I used to talk about his dad’s cancer more. I haven’t asked him how he’s dealing, and he hasn’t offered. I let the subject change slide. “You’d do that?” I ask. Since we spent those three weeks without heat, Nate has become good with fixing things around the apartment himself.

“Sure.”

“That’s nice, babe.” I hesitate. Even though I think Nathan might like Finn, there’s always a possibility a friendly neighbor could intrude on our alone time. “It’s not our problem, though.”

“It’s the neighborly thing to do.” He moves to go around me, but I have him cornered.

“I’m sorry about your beer,” I say. “Should I swing by Brooklyn Brewery and get another six-pack?” I don’t know where the offer comes from. I’ve never been good with guilt—feeling it, dealing with it. Sometimes it manifests in weird ways. Is it because Finn was here?

“Don’t be silly. Beers are meant to be drunken.” He wrinkles his nose. “Drunk? Drank? Whatever.”

I laugh a little.

“I would take leftovers, though. It’ll save me a trip downstairs at lunch.”

“Oh.” I scratch behind my ear. “There weren’t any, actually. Sorry.”

He just nods once. “No big deal.”

“I’ll take Ginger out,” I say, a consolation.

“Okay.”

I make no move to let him by. We’re physically closer than we’ve been in a while outside of our bed, and I want a kiss. It’s not unreasonable for a wife to want a kiss from her husband.