Anthony just threw me a bone, and I’m pathetically grateful. More carefully this time, I tail him into the kitchen and lean against one of the counters as he begins pulling stuff together for dinner. While his back is to me, I rub a hand over my low stomach. I’m going to have a bruise there, though it’ll be nothing to the one on my ego. Christ, how mortifying. He’s not bringing it up, which is kind, but I can also tell it’s killing him to not ask questions. After he loads a pan of things to throw on the grill, I follow him into the backyard. He hasn’t grabbed my arm and tried to steer me
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