Chapter 2
With each page I turned, memories returned. Dreams I once dared to chase. Last night, it stirred something deep inside me. This morning, I craved more, with coffee warming my hands and time pausing just long enough to remember who I used to be.
My younger self had been so hungry for everything.
Adventure, creativity, meaning. She'd wanted to capture truth with a camera and tell stories that mattered.
I traced my finger over the faded ink, remembering that electric feeling of wanting something so badly it ached.
That version of me would have saved up for months to buy a decent camera.
She would have researched travel writing programs and photography workshops.
She would have figured out a way to make it happen, even if it meant eating ramen for weeks.
Now I couldn't even remember the last time I'd wanted anything specific enough to fight for it.
Brett's footsteps creaked overhead, shuffling around the bedroom in that lazy Saturday morning way.
Still in bed at seven fifteen, which meant he'd probably stay there until the last possible second before his golf game.
I knew his schedule better than he did sometimes.
Golf at nine with Tom, Scott, and Steve.
Same three guys he'd been playing with for twelve years.
Lunch at the club after, where they'd discuss business deals and complain about their wives.
Home by three if I was lucky, four if they decided to have a few beers and relive their glory days.
Last night he'd crept in around midnight, shower running until almost twelve thirty like he was washing off the day.
I'd pretended to be asleep as he slipped into bed, his body positioned on his side of the mattress like there was an invisible wall between us.
No goodnight kiss, no mention of Devin's game, and no acknowledgment that I was even there.
Just the sound of his breathing settling into sleep while I shut my eyes tight and counted all the ways we'd become strangers.
I closed the journal and started making breakfast, letting myself imagine just for a minute that things could be different.
That Brett might come downstairs and see me this morning.
Really see me, not just glance over while his mind was already somewhere else.
That we could talk like we used to, back when we told each other everything, and staying in bed on Saturday mornings felt like the most natural thing in the world.
The fantasy felt pathetic even as I indulged in it, but I couldn't stop myself. Some stupid part of me still hoped. Still believed that the right breakfast or the right conversation could bridge this canyon between us.
You're pathetic, Lauren, I thought, cracking eggs into a bowl. Fifty two years old and still believing in fairy tales.
I scrambled eggs how he liked them, with just a touch of cream cheese folded in at the end.
Made fresh orange juice instead of opening the carton.
Put together a fruit salad with berries and melon cut into precise pieces.
The breakfast I used to make when we were trying to impress each other instead of just existing in the same space.
This was me trying. Me making an effort to create something beautiful between us, even though every attempt over the past few years had been met with distraction or polite indifference.
I arranged everything on the island like a magazine photo shoot, complete with cloth napkins instead of paper ones.
Maybe today would be different, and I could find a way to reach him.
Brett appeared in the kitchen at eight forty five wearing his golf clothes, hair still damp from the shower.
Blue polo, khakis, that cologne he'd been wearing since college days.
He looked good in that effortless way men in their fifties sometimes managed when they had money and time to take care of themselves.
Still handsome, still the guy who'd made my heart skip as he walked into my American Literature class twenty four years ago.
Still capable of making me feel like an awkward college girl when he smiled a certain way.
Too bad he hardly ever smiled that way anymore.
"Morning," he said, reaching for his coffee mug like it was any other day. No comment on the breakfast I'd laid out. No acknowledgment that I'd gone to any trouble. Just another Saturday morning in the life of Brett Holmes.
Of course. What did you expect?
"I made breakfast," I said, gesturing toward the spread I'd arranged on the island. "Thought we could sit down together for once."
He glanced at his watch, that quick flick of his wrist that told me everything I needed to know about his priorities. My heart sank before he even spoke.
"I've got to be at the club by nine ten," he said, already reaching for a piece of toast. "Rain check?"
How many rain checks have we had? How many times have I done this exact dance?
"It's eight forty five. The club is ten minutes away.
" I said, like his answer didn't matter even though it did.
Like I hadn't gotten up early and spent thirty minutes making his favorite breakfast just so we could have fifteen minutes of actual conversation.
"Come on, when was the last time we had a real breakfast together? "
He paused, fork halfway to his mouth, and for a second I saw something flicker across his face. Guilt maybe, or recognition that I was right. We hadn't eaten a meal together without the TV on or our phones out in months.
His shoulders dropped slightly. "Fine," he said, settling onto the barstool across from me with a barely audible sigh. "Yeah. Sure."
Don't sigh like I'm a burden, I wanted to scream. Don't act like spending ten minutes with your wife is such a hardship.
He sat across from me at the island, and for a moment it almost felt normal.
Like we were still people who chose to spend time together instead of people who just happened to live in the same house.
I cut into my eggs and watched him take his first bite, hoping he'd notice the cream cheese and remember that I still paid attention to the little things he liked.
"Devin's game was amazing last night," I said, trying to inject enthusiasm into my tone. "He hit this incredible home run in the bottom of the seventh. You should have seen his face as he rounded third base. Pure joy."
"That's great," Brett said, taking another bite of eggs. His phone was already in his other hand, thumb scrolling across the screen.
And there it is. The sting of competing with a device for my husband's attention.
"The whole crowd went wild. I mean, everyone was on their feet screaming." I was talking faster now, trying to hold his attention before it drifted away. "Mrs. Patterson from down the street was crying happy tears. It was one of those sports moments you see in movies."
"Mm hmm," he murmured, his attention absorbed by whatever was happening on that screen. Probably emails from work, or stock prices, or golf scores from yesterday's round.
My jaw tensed. Look at me. Just look at me.
"The UConn scout wants to meet with him next week," I continued, getting a little firmer. "Can you believe that? Our baby might get a scholarship to play Division One baseball."
"Mm hmm. That's fantastic."
Fantastic. He said it like he'd say "pass the salt."
I reached across the table and gently pushed his phone down, my fingers brushing his knuckles. His skin was warm, and for a split second, I remembered what it used to feel like when touching him was natural instead of calculated.
"Brett," I said quietly, my voice cracking slightly. "I'm trying to talk to you."
He looked up with that expression I'd started to hate, like I was interrupting something infinitely more important than our conversation. Like I was being unreasonable for expecting his attention during breakfast.
"I'm listening," he said, his tone clipped. "UConn scout. That's fantastic."
No, you're not listening. You're tolerating.
"Are you?" I asked, my voice small. "Because it feels like you're somewhere else entirely. Like your body is here but your brain is in your phone or at the office or anywhere but with me."
His expression shifted to one of mild irritation. "I'm right here, Lauren. I said it was fantastic. What more do you want?"
What more do I want? As if he couldn't understand what I was asking for. As if basic human connection was too much to expect.
"When was the last time we really talked?" I asked, setting down my fork with emphasis. "I mean talked, not just logistics about schedules and who's picking up dry cleaning and whether we need milk from the store."
Brett set down his fork and looked at me like I'd just suggested we sell everything and move to a commune. "We talk all the time," he said slowly, as if speaking to a child.
"No, we don't." My voice was rising despite my efforts to stay calm. "We exchange information. We coordinate calendars. We exist in parallel instead of together, and I feel like I'm disappearing."
I didn't mean for it to sound so desperate, but there it was, the truth I'd been trying to package in prettier wrapping for months.
"Lauren." He said my name like it was a sigh, like I was exhausting him just by existing. "What is this about?"
What is this about? I stared at him, this man I'd shared a bed with for over two decades, and felt like I was looking at a stranger.
"It's about us," I said, my voice breaking. "About the fact that we're strangers living in the same house. About how you missed your son's biggest game of the year because of work, and you didn't even ask me about it until I brought it up."