Evelyn looked at the bed, then at him. “And where do you sleep?”
“In the chair. Or I don’t.” His voice stayed blank. “This isn’t a real marriage.”
The relief that passed through her was almost painful. “I know.”
For the first time, his mouth moved like he might have smiled once in another life.
She set her small carpetbag down. “Do you have something I could change into? For sleeping.”
He crossed to the dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a clean work shirt. He held it out without ceremony.
She looked at it, then at him.
It was a generous gesture. It was also impossible. The shirt might have fit around one shoulder.
“I can’t,” she said.
No shame. No apology. Just fact.
