He turned around and walked down the stairs without waiting for me to answer.
I stood at the top of the stairs, my hand resting on the smooth wood of the railing. I could hear him downstairs, rustling his keys. I did not change my clothes. I walked down the stairs, opened the front door, and followed him out to the driveway.
The air was crisp, the smell of dry leaves rising from the pavement. We got into the car without speaking.
I sat in the passenger seat of the quiet car, smoothing my skirt as we drove toward the restaurant.
The engine of our sedan died, leaving only the hum of the heater and the click of cooling metal beneath the hood. Damon did not unbuckle his seatbelt. He sat with both hands gripped at twelve o’clock on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the windshield as if waiting for a light to change in the empty parking lot.
