1. Karlie
— ? —
Karlie
The candles have been burning for four hours.
I lit them at six, when I finished setting the table. It’s ten now, and the wax has dripped down onto the good tablecloth, pooling in little white rivers that are going to be hell to clean up later.
I don’t clean them up. I just sit at the table in my anniversary dress, green silk, his favorite color, bought specifically for tonight, and watch the flames flicker.
Three years. Three years of marriage, and I’m spending my anniversary alone.
His text came at 5:47. Working. That’s it. One word. No apology, no explanation, no estimated time of arrival. Just working.
I made his favorite meal. Filet mignon, rare, with roasted potatoes and asparagus.
The steak went cold two hours ago. I put it in the fridge at eight, then took it back out at nine, thinking maybe he’d walk through the door any minute.
Now it’s sitting on the counter congealing, and I can’t bring myself to look at it.
Mrs. Potts, still on loan from my father’s house three days a week the way she has been since my wedding, offered to stay late. I sent her home. This isn’t something I want witnesses for.
The house is so quiet. It used to be different.
Before Logan disappeared, there was noise here.
William coming home at a reasonable hour.
Dinner together. Conversations that weren’t about schedules or obligations.
He used to find me in whatever room I was in and just be there.
Reading while I watched TV, working on his laptop while I read.
Not talking, necessarily, but present. Choosing to be in the same space as me.
Now the house just feels empty. Every room perfectly arranged and nobody in any of them. I wander through it some days just to hear my own footsteps.
I get up from the table and walk to the window that faces the driveway. The motion-sensor lights are dark. No headlights coming up the drive. No sign of my husband.
I check my phone. No new messages. No missed calls.
I walk back to the table and sit down again.
Four months ago, everything changed.
Helen showed up at our door at seven in the morning, mascara streaking down her face. Logan’s gone, she’d gasped. No one knows where. He just vanished.
And William, my quiet, steady, unshakeable husband, went gray. I watched the color drain from his face as Helen sobbed against his chest, and I knew that nothing was ever going to be the same.
The Hunts hired private detectives within the week.
Terrence called daily, demanding updates, piling the pressure on William.
Cassidy oscillated between theatrical grief and pointed comments about legacy and family duty.
And Helen was everywhere. Calling at all hours.
Showing up unannounced. Needing comfort, needing support, needing William in ways that made my skin crawl.
I tried to help. In the beginning, I tried so hard. I made sure he ate. I covered for him when he needed space. I held him the few times he let me, and I didn’t push when he pulled away.
But somewhere along the way, he stopped coming back.
He started sleeping at the office. Then in the guest room on the nights he did come home.
So he wouldn’t wake me, he said, though we both knew that wasn’t the real reason.
The conversations got shorter. The silences got longer.
And I found myself sitting alone in room after room of this beautiful, empty house, waiting for a husband who kept not showing up.
I get up again. I can’t sit still.
The living room still has the book I was reading last week on the end table.
I pick it up, look at it, put it down. I can’t focus on words right now.
I walk to the kitchen and stare at the cold dinner on the counter.
The asparagus has gone limp. The potatoes have a gray film on them. The steak looks like leather.
I should throw it away. I should clean up and go to bed and stop waiting for a man who clearly isn’t coming.
Instead, I cover everything with plastic wrap and put it back in the fridge. Just in case.
Three years ago, when I agreed to this marriage, I told myself I wouldn’t end up like my mother. I wouldn’t spend my life alone in a big empty house, waiting for a man who was never there.
And here I am, sitting in the dark, waiting.
The phone rings, and my heart jumps. I grab it without checking the screen.
“Hello?”
“Karlie.” Helen’s voice. Of course. “Is Will there? I need to speak with him.”
“He’s not home yet.”
“Oh.” A pause, loaded with false sympathy. “Working late again? Poor thing. He’s been so stressed lately.”
“I’m aware.”
“Well, when he does get home, have him call me, would you? It’s important.”
Have him call me. Like I’m the answering service.
“You know, Helen, if it’s that important, you could try his cell phone. That’s generally how people reach people in this century.”
“I did try. He didn’t answer.” Her voice sharpens, then smooths back into sweetness. “I’m sure he’s just busy. You know how he gets when he’s focused on work.”
“I do know. That’s why I’m sitting here alone on my anniversary.”
A beat of silence. I can almost hear her recalculating.
“Your anniversary?” There’s sympathy in her voice, and underneath it, satisfaction. “Oh, Karlie. I had no idea. How unfortunate.”
“Isn’t it.”
“Well.” She sighs, long and dramatic. “I suppose some men just aren’t built for that sort of thing. Remembering dates, making romantic gestures. Will has always been more practical than sentimental.”
“Has he.”
“Mmm. I remember his birthday one year, we must have been sixteen or seventeen, and Logan and I planned this whole surprise party for him. Do you know what Will did? He walked in, looked at all of us, and said ‘I would have preferred a quiet dinner.’ Can you imagine?” She laughs, light and tinkling.
“That’s just who he is. You can’t take it personally. ”
“I’m not taking anything personally, Helen. I’m just wondering why you’re calling my house at ten o’clock at night to chat about my husband’s personality.”
The sweetness in her voice hardens slightly. “I told you. I need to speak with him. It’s about Logan.”
“It’s always about Logan.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ll tell William you called.”
“Make sure you do.” A pause, and then, softer, almost gentle: “You do know it’s our Logan he’s grieving. You wouldn’t understand. It’s a family thing.”
Our Logan. As if I didn’t spend three years of holidays with him, as if he wasn’t the only member of William’s family who ever treated me like I belonged.
“Thanks for the context, Helen. I’ll let William know you called.”
“You’re a doll.” Her tone says I’m anything but. “And Karlie? Try not to take it personally. Some of us have known Will his whole life. We understand what he needs. You’ve only been around for three years. You’re still learning.”
The line goes dead.
I set the phone down carefully, resisting the urge to throw it across the room.
My hands are shaking, and I hate that. I hate that she can get under my skin with a ten-minute phone call.
I hate that she’s probably right, that I don’t understand, that three years of marriage doesn’t measure up to a lifetime of shared history.
I hate that I’m sitting here in my anniversary dress, alone, and she’s the one who got to talk to my husband today.
The hours crawl by.
At eleven, I text William: Are you coming home tonight?
No response.
At eleven-thirty, I walk upstairs and stand in the doorway of our bedroom. The bed is made. The pillows are fluffed. Everything is exactly the way Mrs. Potts left it this morning, because William hasn’t slept here in weeks.
I walk down the hall to the guest room. The bed is rumpled. There’s a water glass on the nightstand and a phone charger trailing across the floor. This is where my husband lives now. This is the room he comes home to, when he comes home at all.
I close the door and go back downstairs.
At midnight, I open a bottle of wine, pour a glass, stare at it for ten minutes, and pour it down the sink.
At twelve-thirty, I sit in William’s study and look at the photographs on his desk.
Our wedding photo, both of us stiff and formal, smiling for the camera.
A photo of him and Logan as kids, arms around each other, grinning.
A photo of his parents at some gala, Cassidy draped in diamonds, Terrence looking smug.
No photos of just us. No candids from vacations or date nights or lazy Sundays. Just the formal wedding portrait, the one thing about us he ever put in a frame.
At one, I consider going to bed, but the thought of lying alone in that big empty room makes my stomach turn.
The front door opens at 2 a.m.
William appears in the doorway. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, tie loosened, shoulders heavy. He stops when he sees me sitting at the table in the candlelight.
“Karlie.” He sounds surprised. “Why are you still up?”
“It’s our anniversary.”
He blinks, and I watch it register slowly, like it takes him a few seconds to even place the date. His eyes move to the table, the place settings, the wine I never drank, the cold dinner on the counter.
“Shit,” he says quietly. “I lost track of the day.”
“You forgot.”
“I didn’t forget. I just…” He drags a hand through his hair. “Things have been insane. The search for Logan, my father…”
“I made dinner.”
“I see that.”
“Your favorite. It’s cold now.”
He stands there in the doorway, and I wait for something. A real apology. An explanation that makes sense. Some sign that he understands what tonight was supposed to mean.
He runs his hand through his hair again and exhales. “I should have called.”
And that’s all I get.
“Helen called,” I say. “She wants you to call her back. Says it’s important.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything.
I wait for more. For him to ask how I am, what I did today, whether I’m okay. The questions don’t come.
“I’m tired,” I finally say, because I am. Bone tired, soul tired, tired of waiting for a man who keeps not showing up. “Let’s just go to bed.”
“Karlie…”
“Not tonight, Karlie,” I say, and the words come out flat. “Isn’t that what you were going to say?”
He flinches. It’s small, barely visible, but I see it.
Good.
“I’ll sleep in the guest room,” he says after a moment. “So I don’t wake you.”
Like most nights lately.
“Fine,” I say without looking at him. “Good night.”
I push back from the table and head for the stairs. He doesn’t follow me.
I’m almost to our bedroom when I turn back. I should just keep walking. I should let it go, save it for tomorrow, not poke at this wound when we’re both exhausted.
But I can’t help myself.
“You know what the worst part is?” I say, and he looks up at me from the bottom of the stairs.
“I can’t even be angry. Because you’re grieving.
Your brother is missing, and I’m supposed to be supportive, and patient, and understanding.
And I am. I’m trying so hard to be all of those things.
” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “But I’m disappearing too, William. And you don’t even notice.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, looking up at me with an expression I can’t read.
“Good night,” I say again, and this time I don’t wait for a response.
I go to our bedroom and close the door. I listen to his footsteps head toward the guest room, listen to his door close.
Then I walk back downstairs to hang up his jacket.
It’s still warm, and it smells like him, cedar and something expensive, and for a moment I just stand there holding it, remembering what it felt like when he used to hold me.
As I’m smoothing it onto the hanger, a scarf slips out of the pocket. Silk, pale pink, definitely not mine.
I bring it to my nose, and the perfume that hits me is unmistakable. It’s floral and expensive and cloying, and it’s Helen’s.
I stand there in my anniversary dress, holding another woman’s scarf, and I feel my chest go tight.
There could be an explanation. She could have left it in his car. It could have fallen out of her purse when he gave her a ride somewhere.
But standing here at 2 a.m. on my anniversary, holding proof that my husband has been close enough to Helen for her scarf to end up in his pocket, I can’t make myself believe any of it.
I throw the scarf in the trash.
I don’t cry.
I walk upstairs, get into bed alone, and stare at the ceiling until morning.