CHAPTER 3 #2
"Something like that," I said, taking a sip. The wine was cheap and sweet.
I stood by the drinks table and watched him.
Declan was holding court near the truck. He was telling a story—something about a cat in a tree that turned out to be a raccoon—and he was animated. His hands were moving. His eyes were bright. He was teasing Roach, he was high-fiving Miller, he was alive.
He was the man I had met in the break room five years ago. He was the man who had charmed the dive bar. He was magnetic.
And I realized, with a sudden, sick lurch in my stomach, that I hadn't seen this version of him at home in months.
At home, he was a statue. He was a tired man on a couch. He was a series of logistical questions.
Here, he was technicolour.
Is it me? The thought was a whisper, a cold draft in the warm sun. Am I the thing that dims him? Does he use all his light here, and bring me the shadows?
I took a long swallow of wine. It tasted like vinegar now.
"Hey! Probie!" Declan shouted, waving at someone near the kitchen entrance. "Get over here! You gotta hear this part."
I followed his gaze.
A young woman walked out of the kitchen. She was carrying a tray of burger buns. She was wearing a station t-shirt that was slightly too big for her, tucked into jeans. She had dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she was... fresh.
That was the only word for her. She looked unburdened. She looked like she had slept for eight hours. She looked eager.
She jogged over, smiling. "I'm coming, I'm coming! Don't ruin the punchline."
She put the buns down and leaned against the truck, right next to Declan. She wasn't flirting—not overtly. She was just... there. In his space. In the circle.
Declan finished the story. The group roared. The girl—the probie—laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes. She punched Declan lightly on the arm.
"You are so full of it, Murphy," she said. Her voice was bright, clear.
"Hand to God," Declan said, grinning down at her. "Ask Cap."
He looked up and saw me watching. For a split second, his expression didn't change. Then, the mask of the 'boyfriend' slid back into place. He waved me over.
I walked toward them. I felt heavy. I felt like I was dragging the last four years of exhausted shifts and unplanted gardens behind me.
"Nora," he said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He squeezed me. It felt possessive, but perfunctory. Like checking for his wallet. "This is the new kid. The probie."
The girl straightened up. She smiled at me. It was a wide, open, friendly smile. There was no guile in it. No threat. Just youth.
"Hi!" she said, extending a hand. "I’ve heard so much about you. You’re the trauma nurse, right? Declan says you’re basically a superhero."
I took her hand. Her grip was firm. "I don't know about superhero. Just overworked."
"I'm... Avery?" I think she said Avery. Or maybe Aubrey. The music was loud, and Roach was yelling something about the burgers burning. I didn't catch it clearly.
"Nice to meet you," I said.
"She’s fitting in okay," Declan said, looking at the girl. "For a rookie. Still doesn't know how to make coffee, though."
"Your coffee tastes like sludge," she shot back, grinning. "I'm saving the crew from caffeine poisoning."
They shared a look. It lasted maybe half a second. It was an inside joke. A shared reference. A thread of connection that I wasn't holding.
It wasn't sexual. At least, I didn't think it was. It was just... easy.
It was the ease I remembered from the Harbourwalk. The ease we used to have before the mortgage and the double shifts and the silence.
"This is my girl," Declan said to the group, squeezing my shoulder again. "Best nurse in Boston."
My girl.
It sounded like a label on a file folder. My car. My house. My girl.
I smiled. I played the part. "He's just saying that because I bandage his cuts for free."
The group laughed. The moment passed. Declan turned back to Roach to argue about the meat. The girl—Avery?—moved off to help Sarah with the potato salad.
I stood there, in the circle of laughter, in the bright November sun, and I felt cold.
I watched him. I watched the way he moved. I watched the way he threw his head back when he laughed.
He was so beautiful. And he was so far away.
* * *
We drove home in silence. The sun had set, and the Sunday blues were settling in—that heavy, pre-week dread.
"Good time?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the road.
"Yeah," I said. "It was nice to see everyone."
"Roach is an idiot," he said fondly.
"He is."
"The probie seems nice," I said. Testing the water.
"Yeah," Declan said. "She's good. eager. Smart kid. She reminds me of... me, I guess. Ten years ago."
He didn't look at me. He changed the radio station.
When we got home, the house felt smaller than usual. The walls felt closer. The silence was waiting for us like a third roommate.
Declan went straight upstairs. "I'm beat," he said. "Early shift tomorrow."
"I'll be up in a minute," I said.
I stayed downstairs. I cleaned the kitchen, even though it wasn't dirty. I wiped the counters. I straightened the magazines on the coffee table. I was moving objects around, trying to create order, trying to control the environment because I couldn't control the feeling in my chest.
I turned off the lights downstairs.
I walked up the stairs.
The bedroom door was open. The hallway light cast a long rectangle into the room.
Declan was already asleep. He was lying on his side, facing away from the door. Facing away from me. The duvet was pulled up to his shoulder.
I stood in the doorway. My hand rested on the frame—the same frame I would touch five years later before walking out for the last time.
I looked at him. I looked at the shape of his back. I looked at the space on the bed beside him.
I thought about the barbecue. I thought about the light in his eyes when he looked at the probie. I thought about the dull, glazed look he got when he looked at me over a bowl of pasta.
I wasn't angry. I didn't think he was cheating. The thought didn't even cross my mind. Cheating required energy, and we barely had enough energy to keep the lights on.
No, this was something worse. This was entropy.
I stood there, and the question rose up in my throat, bitter and undeniable. It wasn't a thought I formed; it was a realization that arrived fully formed, like a diagnosis.
When did I stop being the destination?
When did I stop being the person he comes home to, and start being the person he comes home from?
I was the place where he took off his boots. I was the place where he washed off the soot. I was the place where he slept.
I was the recovery room. I wasn't the life.
I walked into the room. I moved quietly, a ghost in my own marriage-that-wasn't-a-marriage. I slipped into bed beside him.
I didn't reach for him. I didn't touch him.
I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling, and I listened to him breathe, and for the first time, the sound didn't comfort me. It just sounded like distance.
The erosion was complete. The structure was hollow. We were just waiting for the wind to blow hard enough to knock it down.
And outside, the wind was picking up.