Oliver’s staring at me. I see the defensive, angry cloud that moves across his face. Then he stands up, and I think he’s about to leave the room but he doesn’t. Instead he walks over to the window, his back to me.

“I didn’t realize you felt that way,” he says.

“Well,” I say more quietly. “I do.”

There’s silence for a while.

“Gillian…maybe this sounds like a cop-out, but…I’ve always known you were better at those kinds of things: people, dealing with people, saying the right thing. I never really know what to say, and you always seem to know.”

I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders. But though his admission softens me a bit, it’s not enough. I think about the hours of my life—probably days of my life at this point—that I’ve spent worrying about how to say the right thing the right way; how to keep the peace, or soothe a conflict, or avoid giving offense. Oliver makes it sound like it’s a gift I just happen to have; something that just comes naturally. But if it comes naturally then why would it be so damned tiring?

Why would I be so damn tired?

“It’s not magic, Oliver,” I say. “It’s not just some ‘female intuition’ fairy-dust thing. It’s that I make the effort. And yes, maybe by now I’m better at those things than you are but if I am, it’s because I’ve spent a lifetime making the effort.”

The kitchen door opens and Sam stands in the doorway, eyes narrowed.

“Did something happen?” he asks.

I guess our voices—or my voice, at least—got pretty loud there for a minute.

“Everything’s fine, Sam,” I say.

His eyes flick between Oliver and me.

“Are you gonna come watch the ball drop?”

Oliver looks at me, and I look back at him.

“Sam, honey,” I say. “Could you sit down for a minute?” I take a breath. “There’s something I want to ask you about.”

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

"Sam?”

He looks at me warily, then at Oliver.

“You’re not in any kind of trouble,” I say. “You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.”

He doesn’t quite believe me, but slowly he lowers himself into one of the seats.

“Sam,” I say carefully, “this might sound odd, but I”—I glance at Oliver—“we, just noticed some things you’ve been doing recently, and we wanted to ask you about them.”

He stares at me.

“Things?”

“They’re not bad things,” I say. “We were just hoping you could tell us more.”

Sam stares at me. Over by the window, Oliver isn’t meeting my eyes. A few minutes ago, reading that article on OCD, all my intuition was whispering that Dinah was right. But now, I wonder if I’ve been barking up the wrong tree.