A Little Change Of Plans. Jen Safrey

percent oblivious not to be affected by her in any way. But the reaction was different now, stronger, needier, now that he was faced with the softer, more feminine, more vulnerable Molly. The woman that he was about to marry and live with for a year.

      He swallowed and waited for her to speak, but she didn’t appear to know what to say next, either, so they stood regarding each other in silence.

      He saw her eyes travel down to his shoulders, down his torso, all the way down to his beat-up sneakers and back up again. Her neutral expression didn’t change, and Adam supposed that was a plus. She could have curled her lip in disgust, thinking, This lazy, unmotivated guy who makes me mental is going to save my career?

      It’s you who doesn’t understand me, Adam thought back at her. You don’t know why I am the way I am because I never told you. I never told you everything about my father because I don’t talk about that, ever, with anyone.

      But, he continued in his mind, I will rescue you. I will be the hero because I have a feeling this is the only time in your life that you ever needed one.

      “Want to see the house?” Molly asked, and Adam was startled at the subject change before he realized it wasn’t one, that they hadn’t been really communicating and that his assurances to her were still only in his head.

      “Sure,” he said, and allowed her to lead him inside. “What were you planting?”

      “Mums.”

      “That’s appropriate. Mums for a new mum. If, you know, you were British.”

      Molly chuckled at the weak joke and ushered him through her front door.

      The last time he’d been to Molly’s Danbury Way home, she’d just moved in and there were neatly taped, unpacked boxes stacked in almost every corner. Now the boxes were gone and every room was vibrant with color and style—ruby and saffron pillows piled on the sofa, tiny bud vases on end tables sprouting pussy willows, shaggy, ropey throw rugs on the shining wood floors. A stranger would instantly know that Molly paid obsessive attention to the smallest details, and that this house was a manifestation of a longtime dream of how a home should be. Molly’s sweeping hand gesture as they entered the warm living room, the sunny kitchen and the flowery bathroom, conveyed her pride in her hard work.

      In all the rooms—except one.

      At the top of the stairs, next to her bedroom, one door remained shut.

      “What’s in here?” Adam inquired, opening the door.

      “Oh,” Molly said, “that’s the nursery.”

      Not that you could tell. The walls were a flawless white, the window covered only with open blinds. Early-evening light angled in between the slats, illuminating the bereft emptiness of the rest of the room.