My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“Who hit you?” I asked.
Christopher did not look up from the watch, but his thumb traced the engraved silver casing with a slow, deliberate motion.
The metallic click of the pocket watch closing fills the quiet apartment.
We was three miles from Pine Lane when I went over the details of our lie once more, the sedan bumping over the cracked asphalt of Maple Street.
“It is called The Book Loft,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead. “It has a green awning and sits right next to the bakery on Cherry Street. We met in the biography section.”
Christopher sat in the passenger seat, his new charcoal wool sweater smelling faintly of the department store box. He brushed his left coat lapel with his thumb, a slow, rhythmic motion that seemed to calm him.
“The biography section,” he repeated in his low rumble. “And what was I looking for?”
“Local history,” I said. “You were looking for books on Pennsylvania barns. It fits your past work.”
“It fits,” he agreed, his voice flat.
