“Your throat, too.” It’s a tragedy that I haven’t noticed what a nice throat he has. Who knew nice throats were a thing?

My unabashed ogling is doing things to him; his throat turns red and splotchy before my eyes. I twirl my flower and watch him do the dishes like a total creep until I get myself together. Whenever I break my gaze I feel his moving over me, and I’m pulled back in again. He keeps catching me sneaking sideways looks at him, and I’m positive he’s caught me silently mouthing Oh my god. The more flustered I get, the wider his smile grows.

I don’t analyze it too deeply when I decide I need to change into a better shirt and touch up my lipstick. It’s Thanksgiving, and that’s the only reason I camouflage my micro-bangs with a headband and curl my hair. You have to look your best on the holidays. You have to switch out your beige bra for black lace and spritz yourself with body spray called DEVOUR ME. I don’t make these rules.

I discover a unicorn in the bathroom: he’s wiped down the sink after shaving. There isn’t a single hair clinging to the faucet. It’s the invasion of the body snatchers.

It’s this detail that makes me generous enough to go start the car and get it warmed up for us. As I lumber out into the cold to switch on the ignition, I am a hero. I’m the most selfless fiancée who ever lived. I nearly slip on a patch of ice and for a split second I imagine myself in a hospital bed, leg raised up in one of those sling thingies, Nicholas fussing over me and fluffing my pillow. I don’t even complain about my broken leg. It’s nothing, I say stoically. I’m just grateful it wasn’t you who fell. Nicholas weeps at my strength. He’s never met another woman this amazing.

“Thank you,” he says as we’re pulling out of the driveway. “Nice and warm in here.” He catches me goggling at his profile again and smiles. He really is something luminous when he shows his happiness, isn’t he?

I need to get a grip. Sure, he presented me with a single half-dead flower and his hair is behaving quite seductively today, but we sleep in separate bedrooms, for pete’s sake. It wasn’t that long ago that I was fantasizing about rolling up my wedding dress into a ball and joyously watching it burn in the fireplace. In spite of any seemingly positive developments that surely won’t last, I need to focus on the game plan here. Just as soon as I can remember what that is. He’s sprinkling some kind of witchcraft on me to make it hard to think straight.

“Where are you going?” I ask when he turns on his right blinker.

“That craft place up here,” he replies, confirming my fears. Let’s Get Crafty is the job that I really, really want and was supposed to hear a decision on three days after the interview. That was last week, and the manager still hasn’t contacted me. I think about following up with them every minute of every day, but if I have to nudge in the first place then I know they’re probably leaning toward no. At least in limbo I can nurse my delusions.

“I thought we’d just go to Walmart in Beaufort.”

He shoots me a strange look. “Haven’t you been badgering me to shop more locally? Going to Walmart for everything is the reason why all our stores in Morris have closed down.” We both think of the Junk Yard, which still smarts.

I’m a traitor to my principles when I reply, “Yeah, but the smaller stores are probably more expensive.”

“It’ll be fine.”

I’m grasping at straws. “We’re on a one-person income now.”

“Relax, Naomi.” He parks and squeezes my hand, then slides out of the car. I can’t go into this store. They’ll think I’m stalking them. They’ll recognize me. Someone will mention the application in front of Nicholas, who doesn’t know I’m still job hunting. He assumes I’ve given up because I don’t talk about it. The only news I have to report so far is bad news, which I’m not raring to broadcast. I’d planned on telling him only when I received good news, which may never happen.

This day is dreadful. The sky is the color of illness and it’s cold but all the snow’s melted, leaving behind exhaust-blackened slush. My lipstick is too much and my skin is hot and itchy and I hate my car. My pulse is a battering ram.

“What’s the matter?” Nicholas asks as he holds open the door of Let’s Get Crafty. I tug between hating the store and loving it. If I get the job, I’m going to love it here more than anything in the world. If I’m rejected, I’ll go buy every craft supply Walmart has to offer and put this store out of business. You don’t have to tell me I’m a bad person for thinking this because I already know.

“Headache,” I mutter.

“Got any Tylenol in your purse?”

“Meh.” My shoulders hunch as I troop inside, endeavoring to make myself smaller and less noticeable.

“I was thinking about a cornucopia,” Nicholas says. “Is that overdone?”

The answer is yes, obviously, but I’m not too concerned about the centerpiece for his parents’ dining room table at this moment. My eyes are darting along the ceiling corners for hidden cameras. I think of a man in a back room somewhere, eating a sub sandwich and watching me on a tiny television screen. Isn’t she one of the applicants? Wow, isn’t this sad. Coming in here to beg for the job, I bet.

“Naomi?” Nicholas says. I get the feeling this isn’t the first time he’s said my name within the last thirty seconds. He snaps his fingers in front of my face.

“Shh!” I whisper, pulling my coat collar up to my nose. I look like a cartoon private eye. “Keep it down.”

“Why? Nobody’s in here.” He looks around. “Imagine if we’d gone to Walmart. Aisles would be packed. We’ve got this whole store to ourselves.”

Nicholas forces me to voice opinions on plastic vegetables, trying to determine if they’re too fake-looking. “Should we use real vegetables instead? I thought plastic would be less wasteful. We could reuse them.”

“For what?”

“Maybe a diorama at the office.”

Right. Eat your veggies, kids! Quite rich, coming from this man. His breath is a Twizzler.

“Real vegetables would be better,” I say. “C’mon, let’s go to the grocery store.”

“I want to look at everything they’ve got here first.” His eyes are round and marveling as they take in way too many options. He’s Martha Stewart now. I’ve lost him to the nuances between basket cornucopias and ones made of wire and we’ll be in here for two hours deliberating.