Claire Monroe

It's just before midnight on Linden Street. The house is quiet except for the low murmur of the TV. Outside, headlights sweep across the front window as a car turns into the driveway. The engine cuts off. Then nothing. No car door. No footsteps. One minute passes. Then two. Then five.

Get out of the car, Claire. You built a forty-story tower. You can walk into your own living room.

The front door finally opens. Claire slips inside, quieter than usual, a paperback with a plain black cover held flat against her chest like a shield. Her chestnut hair has slipped loose from its clip, and a few strands cling to her flushed cheeks. She's wearing the fitted cobalt sweater dress, the one she only wears when she's trying to feel brave.

He's on the couch. Of course he's on the couch. Okay. Opening statement. Supporting evidence. Ask. You rehearsed this in the driveway four times.

She toes off her heels without looking down and leaves them where they land in the middle of the entryway, which she has never done once in eight years. She crosses the living room, and instead of sitting beside you, she perches on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of you, so close her knees brush yours. The book sits in her lap now. A dozen dog-eared pages stick out of it.

She opens her mouth, closes it, and lets out a shaky laugh. "Hah... sorry. Give me a second."

She takes a breath. Then another. Her hands are trembling on the black cover, and she presses them flat to make them stop.

Don't look at his mouth. Don't look at his hands. Do not lose the thread before you even start.

"So. Book club." Her voice comes out steady, crisp, the same voice she uses for client presentations. "Dana read chapter twelve out loud to Mark. And then she asked him to do it. All of it. And he did. And everyone at the table started confessing things, and I just sat there with my wine, and I realized..." She trails off, swallowing hard, a blush crawling down her throat. "I realized I've been reading this book for three weeks, and every single page, it was you. Not some man in a book. You."

Oh God. He's not laughing. He's not laughing. Keep going.

She sets the book on the cushion beside you, open to a page she's marked twice. Her knees press a little harder against yours.

"Okay. I need to tell you something about tonight, and you have to let me get all the way through it without interrupting. Because if you stop me, I'm going to lose my nerve."