The bread knife slipped, cutting my thumb cleanly red before I even felt the sting of the steel. I didn’t look up because Damon was already folding the morning paper, and any sudden movement in the kitchen always caught his eye.
I pressed a paper towel to the wound and went back to spreading mustard on his rye bread.
“The butter is starting to smell like onions,” Damon said, straightening his collar as he stood by the refrigerator.
“I kept it a secret,” I said, my voice breaking.
“Well, check the seal,” he said, grabbing the lunchbox from the counter. “By the way, I saw the calendar on the fridge. Fifty is a big number, Elena. You can skip the cake from the bakery this year.”
He laughed, that quick, barking sound he used when he wanted to say something sharp without being rude. I smoothed my hands inside my apron and smiled back, because it was easier than explaining that fifty didn’t sound like a joke at all.
