Give Me Strength

Prologue

PROLOGUE

GILBERT

I stand by the bathroom door, leaning against the frame with my arms crossed loosely over my chest. I watch Rachel move around the room, methodically packing her things and mine into the suitcases on the bed.

The late afternoon sunlight filters through the sheer curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over everything, making the moment feel almost surreal.

I can’t shake this hunch that this is the last time we will do this. Nor can I shake the nagging feeling that I want this to be the last time we do this.

After all, she has sacrificed so much to keep this charade of ours going. If anyone deserves to be happy, truly happy, it’s her.

“You don’t have to pack for me,” I tell her. “I’m a big boy.”

“Nonsense, it’s the least I can do.” She waves me off. “Besides, I won’t be able to drop you off at the airport this time.”

We do this dance every time. She packs, and I stay out of her way.

She’s also taking several of her students to a dance competition this weekend, a commitment she regularly fulfills. I would never ask her to prioritize me over her career. I deeply respect and admire her dedication and success in her career.

“We have a car service,” I remind her. “They offer long-distance driving options for us.”

“No, thanks,” she chuckles. “In case you haven’t noticed, I go out of my way to downplay all this.” She gestures at the bedroom, but I know she means our home in general. “The last thing I want is for our families to attempt to weasel their way back into our lives for your money.”

“ Our money,” I am quick to correct.

It’s just like her to downplay her abilities. Between a full-time teaching job at Brookfield Performing Arts Academy, a lucrative online choreography business, and many smart investments, she makes some serious bank.

As do I.

Officially and on paper, I am a psychiatrist. My practice, Aspen Grove Psychiatry, is self-sufficient at this time. Unofficially, I work with the CIA in training and counseling operatives worldwide. As an independent contractor, I have the freedom to take on short-term and long-term contracts overseas. As far as anyone is concerned, those trips are with Doctors Without Borders. Random and unpredictable is how it goes.

“How long will you be gone this time?” she asks as she fluffs a tulle skirt.

“A few months,” I tell her.

She never asks me for details or specifics about my assignments because the answer remains the same each time: It’s classified.

What a thing to say to one’s wife.

Truth be told, I have no idea how long this contract is supposed to last. A few months could mean three months or ten. Or years.

But that’s just the thing. Rachel and I aren’t a typical husband-and-wife duo. Our marriage is and has always been anything but normal, but it works for us. We are best friends who lead separate lives and are married on paper.

That, and we both went into this knowing that if either of us wanted out, at any time, all they had to do was say the words I want a divorce .

I have no reason to say it, but she does.

Hence the hunch.

But I don’t say that out loud. I understand that she needs to do this on her terms, not mine. Her independence and autonomy are important to her, and I respect that.

“If I…” Rachel trails off, eyes downcast as her fingers curl around a pair of ballet slippers.

“What is it?”

“If I need to get papers to you, how do I do that?”

My mind travels a thousand miles a minute. “You’re really doing it?” I ask her, my voice more hopeful than I have in a long time.

Her eyes meet mine, full of so many emotions I can’t even begin to untangle them. “Yeah. I’m going to ask Hannah to marry me.”

My own answering smile spreads. “Congratulations.”

“She hasn’t said yes yet,” Rachel says as relief creeps over her face. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be? If anything, I’m surprised you didn’t take the leap sooner. It has been six years, after all.”

She sets down the slippers in her suitcase. “Hannah wanted to wait because Lynn was so young. She’s thirteen now, old enough to understand. Everett, on the other hand…”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I’ve only met the man a few times, but his reputation precedes him. Like me, he unofficially works for the CIA, but I have no idea in what capacity. Like me, he prioritizes his career over his marriage.

The difference between us is I’m not a father, but he is.

To each their own, I suppose.

Rachel picks up a photo frame from the nightstand and pauses. It’s a picture of us on the day in front of the courtyard, flashing our wedding bands while holding up our bus tickets and grinning like fools. We were so young then, blissfully unaware of what the future held for us, yet so optimistic about it.

This picture, taken about a month after we arrived in Chicago, serves as a stark reminder of what we left behind in North Dakota, this path we were forging for our future, and to always look ahead.

Never behind. Always ahead.

She runs her fingers over the glass before setting it aside, a small, sad smile playing on her lips.

“I guess I won’t be needing this anymore,” she says softly, her voice calm and even yet tinged with a melancholy that mirrors my own.

I take a deep breath as I step into the room and close the distance between us. “You can keep it if you want. It’s a good memory.”

She looks at me, her eyes searching mine for a moment before shaking her head. “No, I think it belongs here. With you.” She sets the frame back down on the dresser and resumes packing.

“As do you,” I offer, trying yet failing to keep my voice steady.

“Why?” she asks, not looking at me. “You choose this house.”

“It had potential,” I counter, leaning against the dresser. “But, let’s face it. It was you who breathed new life into this home. You lived in a construction zone for years, overseeing the renovations from top to bottom. It is more to your liking, so it’s more than fair that you keep it.”

She stops packing, shoulders haunched as her fingers dig into the bed, grabbing fistfuls of the comforter.

“It is the right thing to do, Rachel,” I say softly, my voice trembling slightly. “I’ll sort out my living arrangements upon my return.” Whenever that will be.

She stands and walks over to me, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. For a moment, we just stand there, staring at each other. Then she reaches out and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. A smile plays at the corner of her lips, tinged with a sadness that cuts through me like a knife.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice breaking slightly. “For everything.”

“Thank you,” I choke out, my voice thick with emotion as my own tears threaten to spill over. “For all the memories.”

She laughs at that, but there’s no joy in it. “You say that like we won’t have any more of those.”

I pull her into my arms. “We will,” I whisper into her hair. “But without compromising or hiding who we really are. You, more than me. You know I have always wanted the best for you.”

“I know,” she agrees, her voice barely audible. “And I want the same for you too.”

I nod, unable to find the right words. The silence between us is thick as we hold each other tightly, neither of us wanting to be the first to let go.

It’s the end of a chapter, but it feels like the end of the world.