The food was excessive.
That was the first thing he noticed — the table set with more than dinner, more than a weeknight warranted. Chicken, the braised kind she only made on Sundays or when something needed softening. A clear soup that smelled like ginger and something green. A bowl of congee with the soft-boiled egg already placed, the yolk barely set, the way he had liked it since he was small.
Gareth stood in the kitchen doorway and looked at the table and thought: 'she cooked all of this while I was—'
He did not complete the thought.
"'Is something happening today?'" He pulled out his chair and sat. Kept his eyes on the food. "'This looks like a holiday.'"
Jennifer was at the counter.
Her back was to him.
