Apparently he’d brought it downstairs with him specifically so he could remove it before entering the kitchen.
That detail did not help his case.
He’d brought it downstairs with him.
He put it on.
“I’m sorry, Brittany.”
She nodded, but I wasn’t finished.
“Greg, why doesn’t my opinion count anymore?”
He frowned.
“It does.”
“Then why do you need hers?”
“I don’t.”
“Greg, why doesn’t my opinion count anymore?”
“You took your shirt off before coming in here.”
He glanced toward the chair.
Caught.
“You wanted Brittany to notice.”
Greg rubbed his thumb along the edge of the cardboard standee.
“I guess.”
“Why her?”
“You wanted Brittany to notice.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then he looked at Brittany.
“Because she knew me before.”
That wasn’t what I’d expected.
“Before what?”
“Before all this.”
“Because she knew me before.”
He gestured toward himself.
“When you tell me I look good, part of me thinks you’re supposed to.”
“I’m your wife, not a customer-service survey.”
Brittany leaned against the table.
“I’m your wife, not a customer-service survey.”
Greg gave a small shrug.
“She knew what I looked like before I lost the weight. If she noticed…”
“You’d know it was real,” I said.
