Inside the washroom, I fumbled through the medicine cabinet, looking for the massage oil I’d bought last year before Lewis had dumped me.
“You all right?” Hank asked, from the bedroom.
We’d had dinner and a few drinks, but Hank was still tense, so I’d suggested a massage. After all, I was a baker. I sure knew how to knead. “Be right there.” Under the sink, I found the oil and twisted the lid off the small blue bottle to take a sniff. It was vanilla or something. Not bad. I washed my hands with warm water and joined Hank in my bedroom.
He was standing like a soldier at attention by the bed. “What’s that?” He stepped back a little, as though I was armed.
“It’s oil. You know, to—”
“Right.” He rubbed his thumb against his bottom lip and I recognized that little gesture for what it was—a w
