Chapter 2 #5
“She knows that because you haven’t been there.”
Miranda set the pajamas down. “What does she tell you?”
“Miranda, this is getting ridiculous.”
The word stopped her.
Garrett heard it too. He stood, pressing one hand against the back of his neck.
“I don’t mean your feelings are ridiculous,” he said. “I mean we’re turning a gift basket into something it isn’t.”
“What is it, then?”
“It’s a gift basket.” His patience showed now, stretched thin beneath the effort to remain kind. “I won something I couldn’t use and gave it to a friend who wanted it. That’s all.”
“You didn’t know I couldn’t use it.”
“I know you.”
“Do you?”
The question slipped out too quickly to be strategic. Garrett went still, and Miranda wished at once that she could pull it back without apologizing for the reason she had asked.
He looked hurt.
Not theatrically, not in the way a guilty person might exaggerate injury to escape blame. Garrett looked as though she had struck the part of him he believed was safest.
“I thought I did,” he said.
Miranda’s anger faltered. She turned toward the dresser again and touched the edge of Owen’s sleeper, smoothing a wrinkle that did not exist.
“I’m tired,” she said. “I don’t know why everything feels so sharp right now.”
Garrett came closer but did not touch her immediately. When he placed both hands on her shoulders, his grip was gentle and warm through the thin fabric of his college shirt.
“You had a baby five months ago,” he said. “You’re home all day with someone who communicates by screaming. You’re allowed to be tired.”
The explanation comforted and diminished her at the same time. It placed the entire problem inside her body, where exhaustion and hormones could turn ordinary things into threats.
Miranda closed her eyes when Garrett rested his chin against the top of her head. He smelled clean now, having changed while she slept, and beneath the soap she could still detect the faint citrus scent of the luncheon.
“I should have brought the basket home,” he said. “I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”
She leaned back slightly so she could look at him. “Would you ask for it back?”
Garrett blinked. “From Willa?”
“Yes.”
The surprise on his face came first. Then discomfort, followed by a small, incredulous smile he tried to suppress.
“You want me to ask her to give it back?”
Miranda heard how it sounded when he repeated it. Pettiness gathered around the request, making it look smaller and uglier than it had felt inside her.
“No,” she said. “Of course not.”
“I would, if it really matters to you.”
“But you think it’s ridiculous.”
“I think she’s probably opened it by now.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Garrett exhaled slowly. “I think asking for a gift back would be awkward.”
“For you.”
“For everyone.” His hands dropped from her shoulders. “Willa didn’t do anything wrong.”
Miranda looked at him.
He seemed not to understand why the sentence mattered. In Garrett’s mind, he was protecting a blameless person from embarrassment, applying fairness to a situation Miranda had made emotional.
“I didn’t say she did,” Miranda said.
“I know, but it feels like you’re angry with her.”
“I’m angry with you.”
“I apologized.”
“And now I’m supposed to stop.”
“That’s usually what an apology is for.”
The irritation in his voice appeared at last. It was not loud, but it changed the room more completely than shouting might have.
Miranda stepped away from him. “An apology is not a command.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You’re acting like you said the right sentence, so I’m required to feel better.”
Garrett glanced toward the monitor again. Owen shifted onscreen but did not wake.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
The question sounded sincere. That was part of the difficulty.
Miranda wanted him to understand without being instructed. She wanted him to look at the photograph and recognize why his wife might not enjoy seeing another woman celebrated for receiving something he had won.
She wanted him to remember her before someone reminded him she existed.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Garrett pressed his lips together. “Then I don’t know how to fix it.”
The honesty of that answer left nowhere for either of them to go. Miranda looked toward the window, where the evening light had turned the neighboring roofs gold along their edges.
“I need to pump,” she said.
Garrett nodded and moved toward the door. “I’ll start dinner.”
He paused with one hand on the frame, waiting for something. When Miranda did not speak, he left without looking back.
She sat in the armchair beside the bed and arranged the pump with movements so practiced they no longer required attention. The machine began its low mechanical pull, a sound she had once found embarrassing and now barely heard.
Her phone remained on the nightstand beside Garrett’s.
His screen lit again.
This time the message preview was fully visible.
I still can’t believe you gave it to me. You are honestly the sweetest man alive. What would I do without you?
Miranda stared until the words disappeared. She did not touch his phone. She did not need to read anything more.