I ask, pulling my feet beneath me and turning more fully toward the fireplace. “Yes.” I give Paul a look. “How would you know that?” “Because I’ve read the book,” he says, never looking up from his own book, which, as far as I’ve been able to tell, is some huge tome on philosophy. “You have?” “No. I made that up.” “You did?” That gets him to look up, gray eyes bursting with exasperation. “Are you trying to drive me insane?” I give him a shit-eating grin that says, Sure am. “But seriously, you’ve read this book?” “Yeah, last year. It’s good. Something you’ll figure out once you commit to actually reading it instead of talking at me every two minutes.” He makes a good point, and in theory I do want to make it through this book. These hours in front of the fireplace in the late afternoon while both of us read are my favorite part of the day. The only trouble is, it’s not my favorite part of the day because of the reading. It’s because it’s only in these quiet, uninterrupted hours with Paul that he temporarily abandons the haunted look as he loses himself in his book.
