2. Audrey
— ? —
Audrey
Seven days.
I’ve been performing wife for seven days, and Rowan hasn’t noticed anything wrong.
It’s Wednesday evening, and he’s standing in the kitchen holding a bouquet of grocery store roses - the kind with the petals already browning at the edges, wrapped in crinkly cellophane that probably cost more than the flowers themselves.
“Saw these and thought of you,” he says, that hopeful crooked smile on his face.
I take them from his hands. The stems are damp, slightly crushed from being gripped too hard. He must have remembered me on his way home, standing in the checkout line, scrolling past her messages to glance at his shopping list.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“I know they’re not much. I just wanted-” He shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know. You’ve seemed off lately. Thought maybe you could use some cheering up.”
You thought roses would fix this. Grocery store roses with brown edges.
“That’s really sweet.” I carry them to the cabinet where I keep the blue vase - his mother’s vase, the one Ruth gave us for our wedding. I fill it with water, trim the stems at an angle the way my mother taught me. Each snip of the scissors feels like punctuation. “How was work?”
“Fine. Long. The Henderson project is a nightmare.” He leans against the counter, watching me arrange the flowers. “Dave keeps changing the specs, and I’m starting to think the guy just likes making my life difficult.”
Dave. He’s still using that name. As if I don’t know the difference between Dave and M with a heart emoji.
“That sounds frustrating.”
“It is.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Audrey, are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been so quiet lately.”
Tell him. Just tell him. Rip off the bandage and watch the blood pour out.
“I’m fine.” I set the vase on the table, centering it carefully. “Just tired. Work’s been crazy, and Lily’s had that cold, and I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Maybe you should see Dr. Patterson. Get some bloodwork done or something.”
“Maybe.”
He moves toward me, reaching for my waist. I sidestep, picking up the cellophane wrapper from the roses.
“I should throw this away before Lily sees it and wants to know why she didn’t get flowers too.”
Something flickers across his face - confusion, maybe, or the first faint edge of hurt. But he just nods and turns back to the fridge.
“Fair point. That kid turns everything into a negotiation.”
Friday night, he suggests a movie.
“That indie film about the lighthouse keeper is playing at the Harbor. The one you mentioned back in August.” He’s sitting on the couch, laptop closed for once, actually looking at me. “I know it’s been out forever, but they’re doing a last-chance screening. Want to go? Mom said she’d watch Lily.”
I remember mentioning that movie. It was three months ago, right before school started, right before-
Right before M.
“I’m really tired,” I say. “Maybe next week?”
“Sure. Yeah, of course.” He tries to hide the disappointment, but I can see it in the way his shoulders drop slightly. “We could just watch something here. Make grilled cheese?”
“I think I’m going to head to bed early, actually. This cold is still hanging on.”
“It’s eight-thirty.”
“I know.”
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him trying to figure out what’s wrong, trying to decode me the way he used to be able to do without even thinking. We used to finish each other’s sentences. Now he can’t even finish reading my silences.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Feel better.”
“Thanks.”
I walk past him toward the stairs. His hand catches my wrist.
“Aud.” His voice is low, uncertain. “Did I do something? I feel like you’re upset with me, and I don’t know what I did.”
You texted another woman “next time.” You told her she’s the only one who sees you. You wrote “Audrey doesn’t-” and I still don’t know what comes next.
“You didn’t do anything.” I slip my wrist free, gentle but deliberate. “I’m just tired. Really.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t believe me. I can see it. But he lets me go anyway.
He never pushes anymore.
Saturday night, he reaches for me.
It’s late, almost midnight. I’ve been lying in the dark for an hour, pretending to sleep, when his hand slides across the sheets toward my hip. Warm and familiar, seeking.
“Aud?” His voice is soft, hopeful. “You awake?”
I roll away, putting another six inches of mattress between us. “Not tonight. I don’t feel well.”
His hand retreats. “Okay. Sure.”
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Doesn’t reach for me again.
When did you stop wanting me badly enough to fight for it?
I lie in the dark and listen to him fall asleep, and I remember three years ago, this same bed, his hands under my shirt at two in the morning because he couldn’t wait until sunrise.
“I can’t stop touching you,” he’d said against my throat. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.”
You stopped. You stopped, and I was so busy being a mother and a wife and a person who holds everything together that I didn’t even notice when it happened.
***
Sunday Morning
I’m making waffles, dragging the spatula through batter that’s probably overmixed, when small fingers tug at the hem of my shirt.
“Mommy.”
“Hmm?”
“Mommy, why are you sad?”
The spatula stops moving. I look down at my daughter - eight years old, her father’s green eyes, my dark hair, that impossible perceptiveness that sees straight through every wall I’ve tried to build.
“I’m not sad, baby.”
“You look sad.” She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s determined to solve. “Like when Grandma’s cat died.”
I crouch down to her level, forcing a smile. Her pajamas have dancing penguins on them. There’s still sleep in the corners of her eyes.
“I’m just tired,” I tell her. “Grown-up tired. It’s different.”
“What’s grown-up tired?”
It’s knowing something that’s going to break your family apart. It’s lying awake next to the man you love while he texts someone else. It’s trying to decide whether to stay or go or set everything on fire.
“It’s when you have too many thoughts in your head and they make it hard to sleep.”
“Oh.” She considers this. “What are you thinking about?”
“Boring stuff. Grocery lists. Bills. Nothing interesting.”
“I’m interesting,” she points out.
“You’re the most interesting person I know.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and my heart cracks a little at how much she looks like him. “Now. Can I finish making breakfast, or do you have more questions?”
“Can I have chocolate chips in my waffles?”
“Sure, baby.”
“And whipped cream?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
She grins - that crooked grin, Rowan’s grin - and scampers off toward the living room. “Daddy! Mommy says I can’t have whipped cream! Fix it!”
I hear him laugh, that real laugh from his chest, and I turn back to the waffle iron and pour in the batter and watch the steam rise.
She doesn’t believe me. Kids never do.
That night, I lie awake again.
Rowan is breathing beside me, slow and steady, the rhythm of sleep I’ve listened to for nine years. It used to feel like comfort, that sound. Now it feels like a wall between us - every exhale another brick.
Through the darkness, his phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I don’t move. I don’t reach for it. I just watch the screen glow, casting faint blue light across his face, and I know exactly who it is.
Goodnight. Thinking of you.
Or maybe: I wish you were here instead.
Or maybe: She doesn’t suspect anything, does she?
He doesn’t wake up. The screen goes dark.
And I lie there until morning, counting every minute, stacking them up like evidence. Seven days of silence. Seven days of watching and waiting and wondering if he’d notice.
He hasn’t noticed.
He might never notice.
How did we get here?