CHAPTER 2 #2
"Tomatoes," I said. "Fresh salsa."
"Exactly," he said. He looked around the small, fenced-in yard. "And maybe a swing set. Eventually. Over there in the corner."
My heart did that little stutter-step it always did when he mentioned kids.
"A swing set," I repeated. "That's ambitious."
"You gotta plan ahead," he said. "Takes time to get the ground ready."
But the garden never happened. That summer, he got busy with overtime. The next spring, it rained for a month straight. The dirt remained dirt. We stopped talking about the tomatoes, but I kept the image of the swing set in my head. It was a promise, planted in the soil of my imagination.
I didn't notice the shifts at first. They were invisible, microscopic fractures in the foundation.
It was the way conversations about timelines became vague.
"When do you think we should look at venues?" I asked one night over dinner. We had been engaged in theory—no ring, but an understanding—for six months. "My sister says places book up two years out."
Declan was cutting his steak. He didn't look up. "Two years? Jesus. That’s insane."
"It's Boston," I said. "It's competitive."
"We've got time, babe," he said, spearing a piece of meat. He flashed that grin, the one that disarmed me every time. "Why the rush? I'm not going anywhere. Unless you're trying to lock me down before I realize I can do better."
I laughed, because it was a joke. "You definitely can't do better."
"True," he said. "So relax. We'll figure it out. Let's just enjoy this. Being us."
Being us. It sounded romantic. It sounded like he wanted to savour the present. So I let it go. I didn't want to be the nagging girlfriend. I didn't want to be the pressure. I wanted to be the refuge.
So I stopped asking about dates. I waited for him to bring it up.
He didn't.
Then there was the phone.
It was a small moment. Innocuous. If you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't even see it.
We were eating takeout on a Tuesday. The TV was off. We were talking about my shift—a difficult patient, a diagnosis I'd missed initially.
His phone was on the table between us. It buzzed. The screen lit up.
Declan reached for it. His movement was casual, but there was a split-second hesitation. His eyes flicked to the screen, then to me.
He picked it up and angled it slightly away. Just a few degrees. Enough that the glare of the overhead light obscured the screen from my view.
He chuckled. A short, sharp sound.
"Who is it?" I asked, twirling pasta on my fork.
"Just Roach," he said. He tapped out a quick reply, his thumbs moving fast. "Sending me memes. The guy needs a hobby that isn't the internet."
He set the phone back down. Face down.
"What was the meme?" I asked.
"Oh, just... some firefighter humour. You wouldn't think it was funny. It's gross."
"I'm a trauma nurse, Declan. I deal with bodily fluids for a living. Try me."
"Trust me," he said, reaching across the table to take my hand. "It's stupid. So, tell me more about the patient. Did the attending agree with you?"
He steered the conversation back to me. He looked interested. He squeezed my hand.
I believed him. Why wouldn't I? Roach was always sending stupid things. Firehouse humour was gross. And Declan was here, with me, eating cold pasta and asking about my day.
The phone sat there, face down on the table, a black monolith of silence.
I didn't know then that the silence was a lie. I didn't know that "Roach" was a code, or that the angle of a phone could be the geometry of betrayal. I just saw a man who loved me enough to listen to my work stories.
Later that night, we were in bed.
The room was dark, the streetlights casting those familiar shadows across the duvet. Declan was asleep. He could fall asleep in seconds—a talent learned in the firehouse, where sleep was a commodity to be snatched in intervals.
I was awake. I was listening to the wind rattle the window pane, a sound that used to make me anxious but now just made me feel grateful for the warmth inside.
Declan shifted in his sleep. He rolled toward me. His arm came up and draped over my waist, heavy and solid. His hand came to rest on my stomach.
His palm was warm through my t-shirt. His fingers were curled slightly, possessive, protective.
It was the gesture of a man claiming his territory. It was the gesture of a father, even if there was no baby yet. It was the physical manifestation of the swing set in the corner of the yard.
I lay there, afraid to move, afraid to disrupt the perfection of the moment. I watched the rise and fall of his chest. I smelled the soap on his skin.
This is it, I thought. This is what safe feels like.
Safety wasn't a fortress. It wasn't a lack of danger. It was this heavy arm. It was this breathing presence beside me. It was knowing that no matter how cold the wind blew off the harbour, I had this heat to come home to.
I placed my hand over his. I interlaced our fingers.
He didn't wake up. He just sighed in his sleep, a sound of deep, unconscious contentment.
I closed my eyes and let myself drift off, holding onto his hand, anchored in the belief that I was the centre of his world.
I didn't see the cracks in the ceiling. I didn't see the water damage spreading behind the paint. I just saw the blue. The beautiful, calming, Harbour Mist blue.
And I slept, the deep, dreamless sleep of the woman who thinks she has won.