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Claire stood in the doorway, on the threshold, ready for the night. She knew she should just push on, leave the house. But she hung there, frozen, eyes roving from the blackness outside to Micah still in the house.
“Hey, bay...” she said, and waited for him to turn from the screen, though she knew it wouldn’t happen. After the silence grew too thick, she spoke again. “I’m headed to the library to Sylvia Plath it with Jaar.”
That didn’t move him, either. He just kept typing, hunching even further in that white tee, which was wrinkled and covered with grease stains.
“They don’t have an oven so you don’t have to worry about me killing myself while I’m there.” There was a time (most of the years they’d dated, and the first couple years of their marriage) where morbid humor had be
