“You don’t look like someone who’s just made him this happy,” he says gently.
I force a smile.
“I’m fine.”
He says nothing.
Which makes it harder to pretend.
I look down at the flowers.
Atthe careful way the stems lean toward each other, balanced without effort. At the certainty of their direction.
Phil had told him.
He hadn’t hidden me.
That should be enough.
It should settle the small, restless thing that’s been following me for days now, quiet but persistent.
Maybe I’ve imagined it.
Maybe I’m looking for fractures where none exist.
I sit down beside Arthur before I can change my mind.
The bench is cool beneath me. Solid.
Safe.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
Arthur doesn’t hesitate.
“You can ask me anything.”
I nod, but the words don’t come immediately.
I trace my finger along a crack in the paint on the table, following it to nowhere.
“He’s not…” I stop. Reset. “He’s not unkind.”
Arthur’s voice is steady.
“No. He isn’t.”
“And when we’re alone,” I continue, choosing each word carefully, “he’s very sure.”
Arthur waits.
“But when other people are around…” I hesitate again.
This is where it becomes real.
“He changes,” I say quietly.
Arthur doesn’t interrupt.