Conor grabbed for a towel, but he wasn’t fast enough.
The loose padding had slipped far enough for me to see a long pink scar running above the cast line.
Something in the way he said my name stopped me.
It was healing.
And it had nothing to do with the fractured ankle he’d supposedly gotten two weeks earlier.
I stared at him.
“Conor… what the hell is that?”
His hand closed around the towel.
Suddenly, the last two weeks of strange behavior made sense.
It had nothing to do with the fractured ankle he’d supposedly gotten two weeks earlier.
Or at least I thought they did.
***
When you’ve been married for 32 years, you learn certain things about a person.
I knew Conor snored worse on his back.
I knew he said he wasn’t hungry right before stealing half my fries. And I knew my husband had absolutely no dignity when he was sick.
