She attempted a smile and nodded. Awkwardness flooded her. They were getting married tomorrow, and here they stood, talking to each other like acquaintances through a crack in the door.
“We’re still leaving at eleven tomorrow, right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Did he exhale, as if relieved? Had he been thinking she’d changed her mind about tomorrow?
“Well, good night, then,” he said.
“Good night. Ryan?” she called impulsively when he turned to walk away. He paused, looking back at her.
“Thank you for making dinner for me last night. And the brownie was delicious.”
He smiled. “You made the dinner. I just cooked it.”
“Well, thank you anyway,” she said emphatically.
He nodded once, his expression tight, his gaze searching. He turned. Faith opened her mouth to halt him again, but uncertainty tightened her throat, silencing her.
* * *
The next day dawned even more brilliant than its predecessor. Faith peered out her bedroom window as soon as she arose. The leaves of the oak tree in the side yard had completely unfurled, looking brilliantly green against the backdrop of a cloudless, periwinkle-blue sky. A soft, mild breeze wafted through the window screen.
When she opened her bedroom door, she paused on the threshold. She could hear the muted sound of Ryan moving around in the kitchen. A ridiculous thought occurred to her that she should go back in her room and close the door.
It’s unlucky for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.
Where in the world had that come from? Faith wondered in amused puzzlement. It wasn’t as if they were a real bride and groom, after all.
She peered into the kitchen cautiously, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw that Ryan wore a gray cotton T-shirt along with his pajama bottoms.
“Good morning,” she said, feeling shy for some stupid reason.
He looked around, holding a pan lid in his hand.
“Good morning. I made oatmeal. Hungry?”
“I’m starving,” she admitted, entering the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. She pulled out a carton of orange juice and poured it into two glasses.
“You never ate your salad last night,” he said. “No wonder you’re starved. Were you nauseated? Because of the baby?”
“No. I think that’s mostly passed, thank goodness.” She returned the carton to the refrigerator and pulled out some English muffins. “I think I might have just been a little...keyed up.”
“Nervous, you mean?”
She paused in the action of forking apart a muffin. Ryan leaned next to the counter. It didn’t matter that he’d covered his museum-worthy torso with a T-shirt. He still looked roll-out-of-bed delicious.
“Yes,” she admitted, dropping her gaze. “Aren’t you? A little?” She looked at his face again when he didn’t immediately answer.
“I thought you were going to tell me last night that you didn’t want to go through with it,” he said starkly.
“Oh...well, I was sort of having doubts last night. It’s kind of an unusual situation, isn’t it?” she asked, turning to put the muffins in the toaster.
“It’s for the best. We have the baby to think about.”
“I know.”
A strained silence ensued.