Chapter 3 Two of Them #3
"The eastern section first," Rafael says, setting the orange back in the crate. "Then the terrace grove if he wants to see more."
"I'll meet you there at ten." Marisol flips to a new page. "You and me, then? Or do you want to bring anyone else?"
This morning I offered to show that same terrace grove to the buyer. I offered to be part of the tour, to contribute what I know about the land and the fruit and the families who've worked here for generations. Rafael told me Marisol had everything handled.
Now they're deciding who goes tomorrow. I wait for my name.
"Just you and me tomorrow." Rafael closes the lid of the sample crate, leaving his palm there for a moment. "Better if we keep it to the two of us."
Marisol looks down at the schedule spread across the desk. "What about Sera?"
My hand tightens around the edge of my robe before I realize I'm doing it.
"She asked to come."
Relief rises so quickly that it embarrasses me, even though neither of them can see my face. Marisol remembered. After the way this morning ended, after Rafael told me to leave the buyer visit with her, at least someone remembered I'd offered.
I wait for him to answer.
Rafael doesn't. He pushes the crate farther across the desk and braces both hands against the edge, his head dropping between his shoulders.
He looks exhausted, more than tired. His sleeves are rolled unevenly, his shirt creased from a day spent leaning over desks and crates, and his hair has fallen forward from however many times he's dragged his hands through it.
For one instinctive second, I almost walk in.
Before I can move, Rafael releases a long breath and drops into the chair.
"No." He presses the heel of one hand over his eyes before letting it fall into his lap. "I don't need Sera there. You're already with me. It’s better if it’s just the two of us."
The words hurt more for how casually he says them.
Marisol's pen settles against the paper. "You're sure?"
Rafael tips his head and stares at the ceiling. "She'll want to know too much. I don’t need that."
Of course I would.
A few months ago, he wouldn't have waited for me to ask.
He would have come home complaining about Ferrante before he'd finished taking off his jacket, and I would have listened while we ate something in the kitchen because neither of us wanted to wait for dinner.
He would have asked what I thought even if he'd already made up his mind.
Now the idea of me asking what happened sounds like another problem he has already anticipated.
Marisol closes the folder halfway. "And you don't want to tell her?"
A tired laugh leaves him. “I don’t want to have that conversation tomorrow."
Something twists beneath my ribs.
Then Marisol studies him for a second before getting up from the corner of the desk.
She comes around the desk while Rafael closes his eyes again, and I tell myself this is where I should leave. I've already heard more than I came downstairs to hear. Whatever comes next belongs to a conversation I wasn't invited into.
Marisol rests her hand on his forearm.
My feet stay where they are.
Her palm lies against his sleeve as naturally as if she's done it before. Maybe she has. Maybe she hasn't. Her thumb moves once over the fabric, a small soothing stroke that could mean absolutely nothing.
Rafael doesn't react. His eyes remain closed, his head tipped back, his whole body worn down by the day.
I try to take comfort in that.
I've known Marisol for years. She touches people. She catches my wrist when I walk past too quickly, hooks her arm through mine in crowded places, kisses my cheek with theatrical enthusiasm if I haven't seen her for more than a few days. I have never thought twice about it.
I don't want to start now just because the person she's touching is my husband.
Then a piece of Rafael's hair slips over his forehead.
Marisol looks at it, and something about her expression makes the thought die before I can finish it.
She lifts her hand from his arm and brushes the strand back.
My stomach drops so suddenly that I have to press my fingers against the wall.
It is barely a touch. Her fingertips skim his forehead and smooth his hair back into place. Rafael doesn't open his eyes and doesn't stop her.
That shouldn't be enough to hurt this much.
Maybe it only does because I'm standing in the hallway of our house while my best friend touches my husband with the easy confidence of someone who has never had to wonder whether she's welcome beside him.
Marisol lets her hand fall, but she watches him for another moment.
I know her face. I've known every version of it for years, the exaggerated sympathy, the wicked amusement, the bright interest she wears when someone catches her attention.
This isn't quite any of those.
It's softer.
Private, somehow.
The thought comes so quickly I hate myself for having it.
Nothing has happened. Rafael hasn't touched her. He isn't even looking at her. Marisol is my friend, and I refuse to become the kind of woman who turns every harmless gesture into proof that her marriage is in danger.
But I can't stop looking at her face.
"You're exhausted," she says.
"I'm fine."
"Rafael..."
His mouth shifts in the faintest hint of a smile. "You've been spending too much time with my wife."
Marisol laughs softly. "So have you."
The exchange is nothing. A stupid joke at the end of a long day.
Still, the ease of it catches somewhere tender.
Rafael and I used to talk like that without trying. We could turn one ridiculous sentence into an hour of nonsense, lying in bed long after we should have been asleep because neither of us wanted to be the first one to stop talking.
Now I have to check whether he has five minutes before I tell him something.
Marisol never seems to have to check.
Rafael opens his eyes. Her hand is no longer on him, but she hasn't moved far from the chair.
"I can handle Ferrante tomorrow," she says. "You don't need to make the day harder than it already is."
"I know." Rafael looks down at the papers spread across his desk. "That's why I want it this way."
Marisol tilts her head. "This way?"
"Just us." He rubs two fingers over his temple. "I don't have the energy for anything else."
I stare at him. There it is again.
Not my name this time. Somehow that makes it worse.
Anything else.
This morning, I offered to walk through groves I've known since I was a child.
I wasn't asking him to entertain me or rearrange an entire meeting because his wife felt neglected.
I know this estate. I know these trees. I know the families who work them, the years when the fruit came early and the years when storms took half the crop.
I thought I could be useful.
More than that, although I hadn't wanted to admit it even to myself, I thought he might want me beside him.
Instead, being beside me apparently requires energy he doesn't have.
I look down at my bare feet beneath the hem of my robe and remember why I came downstairs in the first place.
Fiorella. The cedar sample, the ridiculous customer who wanted lavender-scented wrapping paper for patchouli. I'd saved the story for him without thinking about it.
I've been doing that since we were children. Collecting tiny things during the day because I knew I'd tell Rafael later.
For the first time, I wonder how many I've stopped telling him.
Marisol gathers the papers into a neat stack. "Ten?"
"Ten."
And just like that, tomorrow is decided.
But I don't belong in it.
I take a careful step away from the doorway. The old floorboard beneath my heel gives a soft creak, and my heart jumps hard enough that for a second I can feel the pulse in my throat.
Neither of them looks up.
Relief should come first. Instead, something humiliatingly close to disappointment does.
I wanted Rafael to hear me.
I wanted him to turn and find me here so that this wouldn't be mine to carry alone. Maybe he would come after me. Maybe he would see my face and immediately understand why his words hurt. Maybe he'd tell me Marisol's hand meant nothing and ask why I hadn't simply walked in.
Or maybe he would look annoyed that I'd overheard a conversation that wasn't meant for me.
The possibility keeps me silent.
I step farther into the dark hallway, pressing my lips together until the ache in my throat settles and I turn away.
The hallway back to the stairs seems longer than it did when I came down. Behind me, papers rustle in the workroom. Marisol says something too quietly for me to catch, and Rafael answers in the same low voice.
I don't stop again.
By the time I reach the stairs, I have almost convinced myself her hand meant nothing. Halfway up, I tell myself his words were about one buyer meeting, not our marriage, and that tomorrow I will probably feel ridiculous for allowing them to hurt me.
But when I reach the bedroom and see the lamp glowing beside his empty side of the bed, I know I'm not going downstairs again to ask.
The lamp is still on when I get there, casting its warm glow across Rafael's side of the bed. I've left it on plenty of nights, a small signal that I'm waiting, that I want him to come up and tell me about his day while I tell him about mine.
I change out of my robe and slide under the covers.
Then I reach over and turn off the lamp.
The room goes dark. Outside, the grove rustles in the breeze.
Tonight I'm not waiting up.