I expected Martin would’ve stormed inside, but he didn’t. He watched from outside, hands balled into fists. “He looks like he’s training her,” he said later. His voice shook. “Training her for what?” The question hung unanswered, more frightening than if we’d seen them kiss.
Every time Martin saw them together, he told himself he would get the proof, but it never came. There were some flashes: Graham’s hand sliding a paper across the table, her smile bright and trusting. But where was the impropriety, or scandalous gestures? The entire thing just made us suspect even more that intimacy came in many forms, and not all of them visible.