3. Maren #2
We cook dinner together for the first time in, I don’t actually know. That’s the saddest part. I can’t remember the last time we stood in the same kitchen, doing the same task, just existing in each other’s space without one of us rushing off somewhere.
Rhodes is a terrible cook. He’s always been a terrible cook. The man built a billion-dollar company from nothing and still can’t properly dice an onion. I watch him butcher a tomato with a chef’s knife that costs more than my first car and feel something dangerously close to affection.
“You’re massacring that,” I tell him.
“I’m doing my best.”
“Your best is a war crime.”
“Then come help me.” He holds out the knife, handle first, and there’s hope in his expression. “Show me how.”
So I do. I stand behind him, wrap my hand around his on the knife handle, and guide him through the motion. Tuck your fingers under. Curve the blade. Rock, don’t chop. He’s warm against my back, solid and familiar, and when he turns his head our faces are inches apart.
“Like this?” he asks, low.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “Just like that.”
We stay there longer than we need to. The tomato is forgotten. His breath is warm on my cheek, and I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, and I want…
I want too many things. I want him to keep looking at me like this, like I’m something precious he forgot he had. To kiss me, properly, the way he used to when we were young and stupid and so in love it felt like drowning. I want him to promise he’ll be here, really here - and to believe him.
But promises don’t mean much from Rhodes anymore. Promises are just words that turn into conference calls and canceled plans and another night falling asleep alone.
I step back. He lets me go.
We finish cooking in silence, but it’s not an angry silence. It’s heavy with everything we’re not saying.
Later, much later, I find him asleep on the couch.
We’d been watching some documentary neither of us was paying attention to, my legs across his lap, his hand warm on my ankle.
I’d gotten up to get water, and when I came back he was out.
Head tipped against the cushions. Mouth slightly open.
Lines of his face soft in a way they never are when he’s awake.
He looks exhausted, and peaceful, and like someone I used to know better than I knew myself.
I sit down carefully, and his head slides from the cushion to my thigh like it belongs there. Like it always has. I touch his hair, just once, just softly, and something enormous swells in my chest.
I miss him. I miss him so much, and he’s right here, and that’s the cruelest part. He’s been right here for eleven years, and somewhere along the way I lost him anyway.
He wakes up slowly, blinking, disoriented. Looks up at me with sleep-soft eyes.
“Hey,” he rasps.
“Hey yourself. You drooled on my pants.”
“I don’t drool.”
“You absolutely drool. I have evidence. Years of evidence.”
He sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face, and the documentary has looped back to the beginning. We’ve been here for hours. Neither of us moved.
“Maren.” His voice is rough in a different way now. Careful. “I know things have gotten bad.”
I could deflect. I could make a joke, change the subject, keep the armor up the way I always do. But I’m tired. I’m so tired of fighting for scraps of his attention, and today was good, today was so good, and I don’t want to ruin it.
I don’t want to pretend it’s enough, either.
“Yeah,” I say. “They have.”
“I’m going to do better.”
“Rhodes-”
“I mean it. Today was-” He stops. Swallows. “I forgot. How easy it is. Being with you. I forgot how much I need this.”
“You didn’t forget.” The words come out gentler than I expect. Sadder. “You just stopped choosing it.”
He flinches like I’ve hit him. Good. Maybe it’ll stick.
“I know you love me,” I say, and watch his expression crack open. “I do. I’ve never doubted that. But Rhodes, I don’t think loving me changes any of your decisions anymore.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. The documentary murmurs in the background. Outside, a car passes, headlights sweeping across the ceiling.
“You’re right,” he says finally. “You’re completely right. And I hate that you are.”
“I’m not trying to-”
“I know.” He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. “I know you’re not. You’re trying to tell me something, and I’m finally listening. That’s-” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s long overdue.”
“Just a little.”
“I’ll do better. I promise.”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I mean, and he looks at me, startled. “Don’t promise. Just, do it. Or don’t. But I can’t take any more promises that turn into excuses.”
He’s quiet for a long time. I watch his jaw work, watch him swallow whatever defensive response he wants to give.
“Okay,” he says. “No promises. Just, let me try.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“That’s what I said.”
His hand tightens on mine. He tugs me closer, and I go, tucking myself against his chest, letting him wrap his arms around me. He smells like the dinner we made and the laundry detergent I buy and something underneath that’s just him, and I let myself sink into it. Let myself have this.
We stay like that for a long time. His lips brush my temple. My hand finds his heartbeat.
This is what I wanted. This is what I’ve been fighting for. And now that I have it, I can’t stop thinking about the photo. Can’t stop seeing Rachel’s fingers on his tie, proprietary and familiar. Can’t stop wondering how many Sundays she’s gotten while I’ve been waiting for scraps.
“Rhodes?”
“Mm?”
“The photo. With Rachel.”
I feel him tense. Just slightly. Just enough.
“There’s nothing-”