16. Rowan
— ? —
Rowan
I see them through the restaurant window.
I wasn’t looking for her. I was just driving through Whitmore Falls, picking up a part for the Henderson project that I couldn’t get in Miller’s Point. The Italian place caught my eye because it’s where I took Audrey for our fifth anniversary, back when we still did things like anniversary dinners.
And there she is. My wife. Sitting across from Griffith Hale, laughing at something he’s said, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen her in months.
I pull over. I shouldn’t watch. I know I shouldn’t watch.
But I can’t look away.
He’s leaning toward her, attentive, focused. She’s gesturing with her hands the way she does when she’s telling a story, her whole body animated. There’s a folder on the table between them - papers, photographs, something official-looking.
She’s smiling. Really smiling. When was the last time she smiled at me like that?
I know who Griffith Hale is. Everyone in Miller’s Point knows. The nice divorced restaurant owner who coaches Little League and donates to every school fundraiser. The guy who seems to have his life together in all the ways I don’t.
The guy who’s been sniffing around my wife since the fire.
Except she’s not really your wife anymore, is she? Not the way she used to be.
I watch him reach across the table, not to touch her, just pointing at something in the folder. She nods, flips a page, studies whatever he’s showing her. Real estate listings, maybe. I heard his sister works in Portland.
Portland. She’s thinking about leaving.
The thought hits me like a fist to the chest.
I drive.
I don’t know where I’m going until I get there. The cliff at Miller’s Point, overlooking the water, the place where everything important in our lives has happened.
Our first kiss at seventeen. I’d been so nervous my hands were shaking, and she’d laughed and grabbed my face and kissed me first.
My proposal at twenty-three. I’d practiced the speech a hundred times, and when the moment came, I forgot every word. Just dropped to my knee and held out the ring and said, “Please.”
She said yes before I could remember the rest.
“You were always too slow,” she told me later. “I knew what you were going to ask the second you got out of the truck.”
I sit on the hood of my truck, staring out at the gray November water, and I think about all the ways I’ve failed her.
The distance I created. The walls I built. The months of texting Maryse instead of talking to my wife.
And now she’s having dinner with a man who makes her smile. A man who probably doesn’t carry three months of betrayal in his pocket. A man who could give her an uncomplicated life, a fresh start, a version of happiness that doesn’t require forgiving the unforgivable.
Can I blame her? If she leaves. Can I really blame her?
The sky darkens. The temperature drops. I stay.
I think about the night of the storm. Her hand in mine across Lily’s sleeping body. The way she said, I’m not ready to let go either.
I think about the keepsake box. The hospital bracelet she held against her heart when she thought no one was watching. The engagement ring I’m still carrying in my pocket because she told me to keep it “until she knows what it means to wear it again.”
Does she know yet? Does she want to know?
My phone buzzes. A text from Mom.
Lily’s asking where her father is. You coming home for dinner?
I look at the message for a long time. Then I type back:
On my way.
But I don’t move. Not yet.
The water churns below the cliff, dark and restless. I remember standing here fifteen years ago, so certain of everything. So sure that love was enough, that we could survive anything as long as we had each other.
I was such an idiot. Love isn’t enough. Love is just the beginning.
The rest is work. The rest is showing up every day, even when it’s hard. The rest is fighting for something even when you’re not sure it can be saved.
She’s thinking about Portland. She’s having dinner with another man. She’s building a life I’m not part of.
But she hasn’t left yet.
She’s still sleeping under the same roof. Still letting me hold her hand in the dark. Still looking at me like I’m someone worth fighting for, even when I’m not sure I deserve it.
That has to count for something.
I slide off the hood of the truck. Get back inside. Start the engine.
The drive back to Miller’s Point takes twenty minutes. The whole way, I think about what I’m going to do.
Not confront her. That would be the old me - defensive, reactive, pushing when I should be pulling. The new me has to be different. The new me has to earn his way back, not demand it.
So I’ll go home. I’ll help with dinner. I’ll read Lily a bedtime story and kiss her forehead and be the father she deserves.
And I’ll wait.
I’ll wait for Audrey to tell me about the dinner. About Portland. About whatever options Griffith Hale is laying at her feet.
And when she does, I’ll listen. Really listen. Not to defend myself, not to argue, but to understand.
If she needs to leave to be happy, I have to let her go.
The thought is unbearable. But it’s true.
I love her more than I love myself. More than I love my own comfort, my own needs, my own terror of being alone. If Portland is what she needs, I’ll help her pack.
But God, I hope it’s not what she needs. I hope she still wants to fight.
I pull into the rental driveway. The lights are on inside. I can see Lily’s silhouette in the window, bouncing with excitement about something.
I sit in the truck for a moment, breathing.
One day at a time. One conversation at a time. Show up and keep showing up until she either forgives you or walks away.
I get out of the truck. I go inside.
Audrey’s in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. She looks up when I enter, and there’s something guarded in her expression.
She knows I know. Or she’s afraid I know.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Smells good.”
We stand there, the whole evening stretching between us like a wire pulled too tight.
“Daddy!” Lily barrels into my legs. “Grandma taught me how to make garlic bread! I didn’t burn anything!”
“That’s amazing, baby.” I scoop her up, press my face into her hair. “I’m so proud of you.”
Over her shoulder, I catch Audrey’s eye.
I know, I try to tell her silently. I know, and I’m not angry. Just scared.
She looks away first.
We have dinner. We watch Lily’s favorite show. We put her to bed with two stories and a glass of water and three trips to the bathroom.
And when the house is quiet, Audrey disappears into her room without saying goodnight.
I don’t follow.
I lie on the pullout couch and stare at the ceiling and think about Miller’s Point, about the cliff where I asked her to marry me, about the word “please” that was all I could manage.
Please, I think now, sending it out into the darkness. Please don’t go. Please give me one more chance. Please.
Sleep doesn’t come for a long time.