And I’ve been enjoying it. I know I shouldn’t, but I like the sound of her voice. I like hearing how excited she gets talking about her nerdy car shit. It’s a highlight of my day if I can get her to go on a car-fixing tangent.
Except tonight, something’s off. I can’t figure it out at first. She’s not looking at me when I get changed, which isn’t normal. Usually, she’s trying to pretend like she’s not staring at my body as I strip out of my clothes.
But right now, she’s already under the covers with her back to me, and we haven’t even turned off the lights.
“Make any progress on that sticky gear box?” I ask after flipping off the light and climbing in. We don’t touch at night, but she’s not usually lying as far away from me as possible.
“No,” she says quietly.
At least I know she’s not dead.
“What did you work on instead?”
“Nothing.”
“I know you wanted to order some new fabric for the back seats. Did you find it yet?”
“No.”
I stare at her back, a strange frustration filling my chest. What do I care if she gives me one-word answers? I can just sink down against my pillow, close my eyes, and go the fuck to sleep. If my wife wants to be this way, who cares?
“You know, I was thinking about getting a new car recently,” I say, sounding as casual as I can. “I was leaning toward electric. Maybe a Prius?”
She stiffens. I grin to myself, watching her reaction. “Great idea.”
“You think so? I could electrify the whole fleet of trucks. Might be expensive, but in the long run?—”
“You do that and you might as well flush your whole business down the toilet.” Her shoulders hunch, and she glares at me over her shoulder, looking outraged in the darkness.
“Oh, interesting. I wasn’t sure you knew how to string together a complete sentence.”
Her jaw flexes, and I can tell that pissed her off. But she only shrugs and rolls back over. “Whatever. Goodnight.”
I should let this go. Maybe she had a bad day and just isn’t in a talkative mood. She doesn’t have to engage with me every time I feel like checking on her. Fiorella’s her own damn person, and she doesn’t even owe me a conversation.
But I can’t help myself. There’s no way in hell I’m getting to sleep tonight before I figure out what’s eating at her. I’ll obsess all night long and stare at her slowly rising chest and listen to her soft snores, and tomorrow I’ll be a fucking zombie. Might as well get this over with now.
“You can lie there and pretend to ignore me, or you can just tell me what’s going on. Either way, I’m not leaving you alone until you talk.”
Her shoulders hunch again. “Can you just drop it? I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Clearly something happened.” An ugly thought occurs to me. “Was it one of my men? Did one of them say something to you?”
“Luca, no, of course not.”
“Tell me, baby. I promise I’ll take care of them. Whoever did it, they won’t so much as fucking look at you again when I’m finished with them. Nobody disrespects my wife.”
“Stop it, I already said it’s not that.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“I’m just tired.”
“Great excuse, but your bullshit reeks.”
“And you’re being a stubborn asshole. Can you just leave me alone? Or do I have to go sleep on the couch?”
“Not happening.”
