Chapter 1 The Future We Planned #2
"Next week. I'll send you the contact information for the county side. His name is Ross Hughes. He's the Archives Specialist over there."
I write the name down and tell Rowena I'll start pulling together an inventory of the oldest documents in our collection.
She thanks me and I head back downstairs feeling genuinely excited about the project.
It's exactly the kind of work I love. Careful.
Detailed. Important in a quiet way that most people never think about.
The afternoon passes quickly. Roger and I work side by side in comfortable silence for most of it. He occasionally reads aloud from old council meeting minutes and provides commentary that nobody asked for but that I secretly enjoy.
"Listen to this," he says around three o'clock.
"In 1963 the city council voted to ban chickens within city limits.
The vote was four to three. Councilman Harold Pratt cast the deciding vote and I quote from the minutes that he said backyard chickens are a menace to public order and an insult to modern living.
" Roger looks up at me over his glasses.
"Imagine caring that much about chickens. "
"Harold Pratt clearly had some strong feelings."
"History is full of people with strong feelings about things that don't matter, Brook. That's basically what history is."
I laugh and go back to my deed requests. By the time five o'clock arrives I've finished ten of the fourteen. I'll wrap up the rest tomorrow morning.
I drive home with the windows down. The late afternoon air is warm and dry.
I stop at the grocery store on the way and pick up ingredients for a simple dinner.
Pasta. Garlic bread. A jar of marinara because I'm too tired to make it from scratch tonight.
I also grab a bottle of the red wine that Kirk likes even though I'm not sure he's coming over.
At home I change into comfortable clothes and start cooking.
The house is quiet. I turn on the radio in the kitchen and listen to whatever station it's already set to while the water boils.
I check my phone. No messages from Kirk.
I send him a text asking if he wants to come over for dinner.
He responds about twenty minutes later saying he'll be there around seven.
He arrives at seven fifteen. He comes in through the front door without knocking because he has a key and he's been letting himself in for years. He sets his briefcase by the couch and finds me in the kitchen draining the pasta.
"Smells good," he says. He kisses the side of my head quickly and opens the refrigerator. "Did you get beer?"
"No. I got wine."
"That's fine." He pours himself a glass and leans against the counter.
He's still wearing his dress shirt from work but he's loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves.
Kirk is a good-looking man. Tall. Dark hair.
A confident smile that makes people trust him immediately.
It's part of what makes him good at selling insurance.
He can walk into a room and make everyone feel like he's their oldest friend.
We eat at the small table in the kitchen.
I ask him about work and he gives me vague answers.
Fine. Busy. Same stuff. He checks his phone twice during dinner and angles the screen away from me both times.
I notice but I don't say anything. I've been noticing things like that more often lately and I keep telling myself it doesn't mean anything.
He's stressed. He has a demanding job. Not everything is a sign of something.
"Rowena asked me to lead a records preservation project," I tell him. "We're going to transfer some of the oldest city documents to the County Archives for better storage."
"That sounds cool," he says. He's looking at his phone again.
"It starts next week. I'll be working with the county archivist to figure out which documents need to be moved first."
"Mm-hmm."
"Kirk."
He looks up. "What? I'm listening. Records project. County Archives. Sounds great, babe."
I let it go. I've gotten used to letting things go with Kirk.
Small things mostly. The half-listening.
The canceled plans. The way he used to bring me flowers for no reason and now can't remember to text me back within a reasonable amount of time.
I tell myself these are just the realities of a long relationship.
Nine years is a long time. People settle into routines.
The excitement fades. What matters is that we're still here.
Still planning a future together. Still choosing each other.
At least I think we are.
After dinner Kirk helps me clean up the kitchen.
He washes the dishes while I wipe down the counters and put away the leftover pasta.
For a few minutes it feels normal. Comfortable.
We move around each other in the small kitchen the way people do when they've shared a space for years.
He knows where the plates go. I know he'll leave the sponge in the sink instead of on the holder.
These small familiar things still mean something to me even if they shouldn't have to.
We sit on the couch afterward. I pull my legs up underneath me and lean against his shoulder while he scrolls through his phone.
I suggest watching something together. He says sure but doesn't offer any suggestions.
I pick a show neither of us has seen and we watch two episodes in near silence.
During the second episode his phone buzzes three times.
He picks it up each time and types quick responses.
"Who keeps texting you?" I ask. I try to keep my voice casual.
"Dave from the office. He's got a question about a policy renewal."
"At nine thirty at night?"
"Insurance never sleeps, Brook." He says it with a grin. The charming one. The one that used to make me forget whatever I was annoyed about. It still works a little. I shake my head and turn back to the show.
He leaves around ten. Says he has an early meeting tomorrow and his good suit is at his apartment. I walk him to the door and he kisses me. Quick. Routine. The kind of kiss that's more habit than intention.
"Love you," he says over his shoulder as he walks to his truck.
"Love you too."
I lock the door and stand in the living room for a minute. The house feels very quiet. I turn off the television and the kitchen light and walk to the bedroom. I wash my face and brush my teeth and get into bed. The sheets are cool. The house is still.
I lie there and think about us. About nine years.
About how we met at a friend's barbecue when I was twenty-four and he was twenty-six.
How he asked for my number three times before I finally gave it to him.
How he drove forty minutes each way to take me to dinner twice a week for the first six months.
How he told me he loved me on a Tuesday night while we were eating pizza on his apartment floor because he hadn't bought furniture yet.
That was a long time ago. We were different people then. Younger. Less tired. More willing to put in the effort that love requires.
I've given up things for this relationship.
Not because Kirk asked me to. Not directly.
But because I believed that building a future with someone meant making sacrifices.
I turned down a promotion three years ago because it would have required me to work evenings and Kirk said it would make things harder for us.
I stopped traveling with Amanda on our annual girls' trip because Kirk said he felt left out.
I put money into his truck payment when he was short one month and then again the next month and then again after that.
I've been patient and understanding and loyal because I thought that's what love looked like.
And maybe it is. Maybe this is just what nine years looks like. Maybe every couple reaches a point where the days blur together and the romance becomes routine and you just have to trust that the foundation is still solid underneath all the ordinary.
I close my eyes.
Tomorrow I'll finish the deed requests. I'll start pulling together the inventory for the preservation project. I'll call Kirk on my lunch break and ask him about dinner this weekend. I'll buy new potting soil for the garden bed. I'll keep building this life one small piece at a time.
Everything is fine.
I fall asleep believing that.