Chapter 11 The Reckoning
The Reckoning
Eliza
Two weeks later, mid-July
Naomi's apartment smells like butter and brown sugar, which is either comforting or nauseating depending on my mood. Right now it's comforting, mostly because she's making croissants and I'm drinking the expensive tea she bought specifically for my convalescence.
I push my empty plate toward Naomi. "You don't have to keep feeding me. I'm injured, not dying."
"You're my sister and you're sad. Feeding you is literally the only thing I'm good at." She folds the dough with practiced efficiency, hands moving in patterns she could probably do in her sleep. "Besides, I'm testing a new recipe. You're my guinea pig."
"Honored."
"You should be. These croissants are going to be incredible."
My wrist is still in a brace, but it's better. The bruises on my ribs have faded from purple to greenish-yellow, which is apparently progress. I can breathe without wincing now, which feels like a victory.
Julian's weekly message came yesterday. Brief, respectful, exactly what I asked for. Thinking of you. No pressure. I'm here when you're ready.
I haven't responded yet. I'm not sure what to say.
"So." Naomi doesn't look up from her dough. "Are you going to tell me what you're thinking, or do I have to keep making educated guesses?"
"I'm thinking your croissant technique has really improved since culinary school."
"Deflection. Nice try." She finally meets my eyes. "You've been here two weeks. You barely talk about him. You barely talk about anything. I'm getting worried."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're sitting in my kitchen in your pajamas at two in the afternoon, staring at your phone like it might explode."
I look down at my phone, which is indeed in my hand. I don't remember picking it up.
"Claire emailed again." I set the phone face-down on the counter. "The final panel interview. She says they can reschedule whenever I'm ready."
"That's good news, right?"
"It's good news."
"You don't sound excited."
I'm not excited. I should be. This is everything I wanted, the career I put on hold, the research I gave up, the chance to be Dr. Eliza Morrow again instead of just Julian's wife.
But when I try to imagine walking into that interview room, all I can think about is the last time I prepared for a presentation.
Julian on the study floor, actually listening. His phone face-down on the carpet.
I hate that thinking about my own interview takes me straight back to him. That evening was real. I know it was real.
But so was Saturday. So were the six months before it.
I rub a thumb along the counter. "I don't know what I want. That's the problem. I keep waiting for some clarity to show up, and it just... doesn't."
Naomi wipes her hands on her apron and comes around the island to sit beside me. Her shoulder bumps mine, solid and warm.
Naomi leans against the island beside me. "What do you want? Not what you think you should want. Not what makes sense. What do you actually want?"
"I want my husband back." The words come out before I can stop them. "Not the one who missed our anniversary and took Margot's calls at midnight and left me alone at galas. The one who sat on the floor with me and helped with my presentation. The one who silenced his phone without being asked."
"Wednesday Julian."
"Yeah." I laugh, but it's not funny. "Wednesday Julian. I want him, and I want to believe he can be that person all the time, and I want... I don't know. I want to trust him again."
"Do you think you can?"
"I don't know. He was starting to show up for me. Then three days later I was in the water watching him swim away with someone else."
"Because she lied to him."
"I know why he did it." I press my left palm over my eyes. "I know that's not fair. I know he thought I was safe. But it keeps playing in my head, over and over. Him swimming away. Her arm around his shoulder. Me screaming his name and nobody hearing."
Naomi puts her arm around me, and I lean into her. She smells like flour and vanilla, like home.
Naomi rubs my shoulder. "You don't have to decide anything right now. You can take all the time you need."
"I can't live in your apartment forever."
"Why not? I like having you here. You're an excellent croissant taster."
"I need my own space. Somewhere that isn't yours or his. Somewhere I can think."
"So get a rental. Something month-to-month, near the water. You'll hate being landlocked."
She's right. I've been thinking about it for a few days now, browsing listings on my phone late at night when I can't sleep. Small places, nothing fancy. A kitchen, a bedroom, a view of something other than Julian's absence.
I reach for my tea. "Maybe."
"Not maybe. Definitely. I'll help you look."
We sit in silence for a while, listening to the timer on the oven tick down. The croissants will need to go in soon. Naomi will fuss over them for hours, adjusting temperatures and checking layers, and I'll pretend to help while mostly just stealing the finished pastries.
I set my cup down. "I think I should talk to him. Not to decide anything. Just to... talk. Somewhere neutral. Somewhere I can leave if I need to."
"That sounds healthy."
"Don't use therapy words at me."
"Sorry." She grins. "That sounds like a reasonable choice made by a functioning adult."
"Better."
I pick up my phone and open my messages. Julian's name is right there, his last message still showing on the screen. Thinking of you. No pressure. I'm here when you're ready.
I type: Public Garden, Boston. Next Saturday, 2pm. Just a conversation.
My thumb hovers over send.
One meeting. One conversation. Not a promise, not a reconciliation, just two people sitting in a garden talking about what comes next.
I press send.