I looked at David, hoping for something—one softening glance, one tiny acknowledgment that I was his wife, not a waitress. He swirled his wine instead, and when I spoke, my words barely reached him.
“David… my back really hurts. Can I sit for a minute? The baby’s kicking hard.”
He finally looked at me, and the expression wasn’t concern. It was irritation, like I’d interrupted something important.
“Anna, don’t be dramatic,” he said. “Mark’s telling us about a case. Don’t interrupt.”
“But—”
“Just get the gravy,” he cut in, and turned back with a laugh that was meant to erase me. “Sorry. Pregnancy hormones.”
Mark chuckled, not quite meeting my eyes. “No worries.”