9. Rhodes #2
I did. I remember - the first one, the year The Sinclair opened, a tiny arrangement in a mason jar, left on my desk with a note that said Proud of you.
Now come home. I remember the second one, more elaborate, with flowers from the garden and a ribbon from our wedding.
I remember thinking I’d photograph every single one, keep them all, build an archive of her love.
I don’t remember last year’s. I can’t even picture it.
“I didn’t-” My voice catches. “I didn’t realize-”
“You forgot.” It’s not a question.
“I didn’t forget. I just-” I don’t know how to finish. I didn’t forget. I just stopped paying attention, stopped noticing, stopped being the person who photographed her flowers and saved her cards and came home when she told me to.
“Same thing,” she says. She turns back to the bouquet, her shoulders tight. “It’s fine. I’ll leave it on your desk like I always do. You don’t have to-”
“Maren.”
“I need to finish this.” Her voice is brittle. “Go check on your gala, Rhodes.”
I walk away because I can’t stand the look on her face. Because I’ve seen my wife hurt before, but never like this, the quiet devastation of someone who’s been screaming into a void and finally realized nobody was listening.
It’s eleven that night when I find the photos.
I’m in my home office, the one Maren decorated when we moved in, bookshelves she picked out, art she chose, the desk she found at an estate sale because she said it had character. I’ve spent thousands of hours in this room and I’ve never really looked at any of it.
The box is in the back of my closet, behind old files and work papers and a broken laptop I keep meaning to recycle. It’s a simple cardboard box, the kind you’d use for moving, with Rhodes, Personal written on it in Maren’s handwriting.
Inside: photographs. Dozens of them. Each one a bouquet, captured in afternoon light on my desk, my kitchen table, once on the hood of my car when she surprised me in the parking lot.
There are cards too. Small ones, tucked into the arrangements.
Year one: We made it. Here’s to many more. M
Year two: Remember when you said you’d never be a guy who owned a building? I love proving you wrong. M
Year three: The flowers are from our garden. The love is from our life. Come home early tonight. M
Year four: I know this year was hard. I know you’re tired. But I’m still here, and I still love you, and that means something. M
Year five: Happy anniversary. I’m proud of who you’re becoming, even when you’re annoying. Especially when you’re annoying. M
I flip through them faster now, watching the years accumulate.
Year six: Still you. Still us. Still good. M
Year seven: I made you ranunculus because it’s our thing, but I also added herbs because you’ve been stressed and lavender is supposed to help. Does it help? I hope it helps. I love you. M
Year eight: We’re going to Paris next month and I can’t wait to see flowers that aren’t mine. Happy anniversary. Don’t forget to come home. M
I stop.
The most recent photo is from year eight. Three years ago.
I keep digging, but there’s nothing else. No year nine, no year ten, no year eleven.
But she said she makes me one every year. She said…
I close my eyes. Try to remember.
Year nine. What was happening year nine?
The Westbrook deal, which consumed six months of my life.
I was traveling constantly, barely sleeping, living on caffeine and adrenaline.
Maren kept the house running. Kept the shop running.
Kept everything together while I built something that felt more important.
I came home late every night. She was usually already asleep.
I don’t remember a bouquet. But I don’t remember looking for one either.
Year ten. Last year. The Hendricks deal, the expansion into three new markets, the magazine interviews and the meetings and…
Maren standing in our kitchen, asking if I’d be home for dinner. Her texting me photos of her work and getting back a thumbs-up emoji because I was in a meeting. Her mentioning that the garden needed weeding and me saying I’d get to it this weekend, then forgetting, then forgetting again.
There must have been a bouquet. There’s always a bouquet. She said she makes one every year.
I just can’t remember.
I look through the photos again. The early ones, where I captured every detail, the way the light hit the petals, the curve of the ribbon, the card propped against the vase.
The middle ones still careful but less elaborate, the later ones increasingly perfunctory, taken in a hurry with bad lighting.
Then nothing.
Three years of nothing.
She kept making them. Every year, she made me a bouquet for our anniversary, and somewhere around year eight, I stopped noticing. Stopped photographing. Stopped saving the cards.
Stopped seeing her.
The gala is in two days. Our wedding anniversary, technically, we got married in September, and I scheduled the gala for the same weekend because I thought it would be romantic. A decade of building something together, celebrated with the wife who made it possible.
Except I haven’t built anything with Maren in years. I’ve built it with Rachel, with Julian, with a company full of people who aren’t her.
She’s been standing next to me for eleven years, and I forgot to look.
My phone buzzes. A text from Rachel: Final venue walkthrough tomorrow at 9. Bringing the updated guest list.
I stare at it for a long time. Then I type: Push it to 11. I have something I need to do first.
I put the photos back in the box. Then I pull out year one again, the small arrangement, the mason jar, the card in Maren’s handwriting.
We made it. Here’s to many more.
Eleven years ago, she wrote that. Eleven years ago, we thought we’d made it.
Now I’m sitting alone in my office at midnight, looking at pictures of love I stopped noticing, and the woman who made them is sleeping in our guest room because she can’t stand to be in the same bed as me.
The gala is in two days.
I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know if I can.
But I know that tomorrow, I’m going to find out what bouquet she made me last year. I’m going to ask her what cards I didn’t save. I’m going to stand in front of my wife and admit that I’ve been losing her in slow motion, and I didn’t even notice until she showed me the evidence.
And then I’m going to find out if it’s too late.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s not Rachel.
It’s Maren.
I found the cards you saved. They’re in your desk drawer with your old passport and the napkin from our first date. I thought you’d want to know they’re there.
I also found the one I wrote you last year. You never opened it.
It just says “I miss you.” That’s all. “I miss you.”
I’m still in the guest room. Please don’t come up.
I read it three times. Then I walk to my desk, open the drawer, and find the card.
Unopened. Still sealed. Her handwriting on the front: Year ten.
I open it with shaking hands.
I miss you. I’m right here and I miss you. Please come back. M
The gala is in two days.
I don’t know if she’ll still be here when it’s over.