Chapter 12
Luna
Isaac is hiding something. I know it in my bones.
Not because of something he says, but because of what he doesn’t.
My husband has become an expert in one-word replies and diversions, but he is always here, watching me like a hawk.
Sometimes, his attention fixes on every little thing I do, as though I might disappear if he looks away for too long.
And yet, the moment I try to speak, he redirects like it is his job. Usually with something about Amelie.
“Is she eating well?”
“Is she sleeping more?”
The conversation flips before it can wander anywhere meaningful, and just like that, it is no longer about us. It becomes about her, as if she is the safest ground we have left.
He has been skirting the edges for days now, hovering just close enough to keep an eye, but never close enough to touch.
Our conversations feel stilted, like we are both tiptoeing carefully around something dangerous lying between us.
And sometimes, when I watch him avoid my eyes, I wonder if he is ashamed of what I did.
There has been talk of therapy—discussions between doctors, suggestions gently made—but ten days in, and the hospital has already been a game-changer for me.
Not fixed, not healed, but my improvement is enough that they decide against moving me to the psychiatric ward.
I am breastfeeding in bouts, but also giving Amelie the bottle sometimes.
I am not considered a risk to myself or anyone anymore.
I am stable as long as I take my meds. The words feel light, like butterflies in my chest.
Isaac does not seem convinced. He hovers constantly, as if his sheer presence might stop me from going off the rails.
My husband has been working from home or the hospital, and he keeps busy all the time.
He holds the baby, lets me rest, and makes sure I eat.
One morning, he brought cinnamon rolls, still warm, and the coffee he makes every day at home, exactly the way I like it.
He is doing these loving things, but the cracks stretch between us, and Amelie becomes the bridge we both stand on, the one place where we don’t falter.
Now, she is asleep, heavy with milk, completely unaware of the tension in the room as she passes easily between our hands.
Isaac takes her gently, supporting her head without thinking.
My husband smiles like he always does when he looks at her, soft and uncomplicated feelings passing across his face.
He murmurs something about her having had a rough couple of days—the immunisations, the swelling on her tiny thigh, the way she cried unlike her usual easy-going self, which I know distressed him more than he lets on—and then he lays her carefully in the crib, adjusting the blanket with unnecessary precision.
He lingers for a second too long, watching her, and then steps back.
And for a brief moment, he looks … lost.
It is fleeting, but I see it.
Then he turns to tidying, straightening things that don’t need straightening, moving objects that are already in place. This has always been him—order and control—while I have always been the one who brings the chaos.
“Isaac,” I try, my voice louder than I want it to be.
“What?” he replies without looking at me, still busy with nothing.
“Isaac,” I insist injecting more firmness into my tone.
This time, I watch as his shoulders slump slightly, as if whatever small respite he had been holding onto is gone now. I pat the bed beside me. “Come sit over here.”
He hesitates, just for a second, and then he comes over and sits. I have never felt more like an executioner in my life.
Up close, it hits me.
He looks thinner. There is a sharpness to the line of his jaw. His clothes hang just a little looser on him. And he is still unfairly handsome. But something in him has changed, like he is carrying a burden he cannot put down.
Not for the first time since I woke up, I realize with a pang that whatever happened to me … didn’t just happen to me.
There is stark fear in his eyes.
For a moment, neither of us speaks, and then whatever was holding him back seems to give way.
Isaac shuffles near, closing that careful distance he has maintained for days, and when he finally reaches for me, it is hesitant, like he is not sure of the rules anymore.
His gaze flickers from my face to my hands, and then, slowly, he takes one of them in his large ones, his fingers wrapping around mine, warm, familiar, and yet strangely tentative.
It is only when a drop falls onto my skin that I realise he is crying.
Silent tears slip down, one after the other, landing on the back of my hand.
Isaac’s head is bowed, his hair longer than I remember, falling slightly forward as if to shield his face.
He doesn’t look at me right away. It takes a few long moments before he seems to gather himself, like he is drawing a shield around his body.
He sniffs quietly and finally looks up, his blue eyes red and rimmed with exhaustion.
His gaze shifts to my hair. I know how much he loves my long hair. He could never stop touching and playing with it.
I washed it earlier, carefully avoiding the sutured cut on my scalp. There is a small shaved patch near the wound, but it will grow back. The rest of it falls straight, long, and brown, still damp from the shower.
A gentle, calloused hand comes up, almost without thinking, and smooths over it. His eyes almost close with pleasure, and a slightly whimsical smile plays across his lips.
“Still wet … can I just towel it dry?” he asks softly.
I nod.
Isaac moves behind me, and I feel the bed depress as he settles, the soft brush of the towel as he gathers my hair. He is so gentle, mindful of every movement, every angle, avoiding the healing skin. Not pulling, not tugging. Just slow, patient strokes, like he is handling a fragile treasure.
“Still don’t remember anything from that day?” he asks in a whisper.
I stare ahead, focusing on the wall.
“I remember dancing with Amelie,” I say slowly. “And then … just waking up here.”
The words feel incomplete, like they belong to someone else.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a memory tugs before it floats away.
And somehow, my bullshit antenna is up.
He mutters something. I don’t catch it because my thoughts are already leapfrogging ahead, trying to fill in the gaps, trying to make sense of something I can’t quite reach.
“I fucked up,” he says louder. My hair is dry, and he is gently untangling the strands.
My mind is anything but settled. It is racing.
I know what comes next. He is going to fill in those missing pieces … telling me what I don’t remember.
And I have a feeling it’s going to break me.
His voice sounds like it is coming from far away, like he is in agony, like each word has to be forced out of him, like he has rehearsed this in his head and still doesn’t know how to say it.
“My problem has always been that I don’t say no.
I should have told Chloe to fuck off that day in the hospital,” he says, his voice tortured and rough with regret.
“I should never have let my mum … offer me up like some free sample every time Chloe needed something.” He shakes his head, almost in disbelief at himself.
“I don’t even know what I was thinking. I would have hated it if one of your exes came anywhere near you.
It was my lack of boundaries. No one else’s fault, only mine. Mum took her cue from me.”
I stay quiet, my hands still in my lap, because I agree. This is a conversation I have tried to have with him many times.
“After that colossal disaster, you just shut down,” he continues.
“You wouldn’t look at me. You didn’t want me in the same room.
You didn’t want me near you. It felt like I lost an arm …
or a leg.” His voice wobbles, then steadies again.
“Then your parents came, and things got a little better. You were talking a bit, looking at me. And then they left, and it got worse again. Things got bad at work too. I tried for emergency leave. I did. I didn’t want things the way they were between us.
I didn’t—” He lets out a breath. “I was too stupid, wasn’t I? ”
Yes, you were, you donkey’s arse.
“You went out with Chloe,” I say, finishing it for him. “With your friends. I know you told me, but you must have known I wouldn’t like it.”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “Yeah. I did. I guess I hoped you would ask me not to go. And you didn’t seem bothered.
” There is no hesitation. “It felt like I could breathe for a bit. It wasn’t just Chloe.
It was Jack and Rowan. Chloe didn’t feel like …
the version of her who lied.” He stops and runs a hand through his hair.
“She felt like my friend again. The one from when we were kids. Jumping fences, skinning knees. Just … my friend.”
My fingers tighten in my lap to stop myself from flipping him the bird. Because that would be childish.
“She kept messaging,” he goes on. “Checking in. Asking about you, about the baby. Sending … encouraging stuff. And I told her I was scared.” He swallows.
“That you were pulling away. That you didn’t need me anymore.
I should have come to you with that. I know.
But you weren’t in a good place, and I …
” He shakes his head. “I didn’t know who to talk to. ”
The words sit between us, heavy and uncomfortable.
“I didn’t know who else to ask,” he says.
“I had Mum help around the house, even though you were still mad at both of us. I was looking for a nanny, I swear. And that night you …” He pauses as if looking for an escape route, then forces himself to continue.
“I didn’t want to come home. I should have been home two hours earlier, but I stayed out.
Because I had already done something stupid. ”
Coldness seeps into my aching heart.
“Chloe had been messaging me,” he says. “On and off. She was low … said she’d broken up with her boyfriend before she moved here six months ago, and I—” He exhales shakily. “I made a mistake.”
I already know this isn’t going anywhere good.
“She said she dreams about me,” he continues, quieter now.
“About how close we used to be. How she misses us before she made a mistake. She said she was depressed and suicidal and that she had nobody.” Isaac stops for a long moment, as if he is standing at the edge of a precipice.
“And I messaged back … I said, I still dream about you. A little white lie to make her feel better, I thought.”
The words feel like a slap on the face.
“I didn’t mean it like—I wasn’t thinking about being with her or anything like that,” he hurries to say.
“I wasn’t. I deleted it straight after. But I think …
I think you saw it.” His voice drops. “And that’s why …
That’s why …” He shakes his head, unable to finish.
“Was that why, Luna? I don’t know what I was thinking.
I wasn’t thinking. And then I was scared to come home because you know I can’t keep a secret.
I thought I would tell you what a complete loser I have been, and then you’d throw me out. ”
“Luna …” He tries again.
I don’t look up immediately. I’m staring at my hands, watching the tears fall onto them without even knowing when they started. For a long, tense moment, I say nothing. Then, I lift my head and meet his eyes, and whatever he is looking for in mine, he doesn’t find.
“Get out,” I say as I look around for a weapon.
He flinches. “Luna—”
“Get out!” I scream.
I grab the pillow beside me and throw it at him. It hits his chest and drops to the floor.
Isaac stands there for a second, like he’s still hoping I’ll take it back, and then something in his face gives way. “I’ll go,” he mumbles. And he does.
He walks out of the room, and the door closes softly behind him. For a brief, absurd moment, an image flashes through my mind of a dog slipping out of a room with its tail between its legs, and I almost laugh before I break down crying again.