Chapter 6
Elise
Maren knows Bennett stopped drinking coffee after two in the afternoon because it makes him grind his teeth in his sleep.
I know this because she says it at dinner.
Not maliciously.
That would be easier.
We are at a private room in Aster, one of those restaurants where the menu has more white space than food and the lighting makes everyone look ten percent wealthier. Halcyon is hosting three investors. Bennett asked me to come because, in his words, I want you beside me.
I wanted to believe the invitation meant something.
For the first hour, it does.
His hand rests at the back of my chair. He introduces me as a cellist, not merely his wife. When one investor asks if I still perform, Bennett answers before I can.
"She has a chamber concert Saturday."
My heart does something stupid.
Then Maren arrives late.
She is wearing navy, hair twisted into a knot, phone in one hand.
"Sorry," she says, sliding into the seat on Bennett's other side. "D.C. call."
Bennett's attention pivots toward her as naturally as a plant toward light.
"How bad?"
"Manageable. Foster is posturing."
They begin speaking in shorthand.
Acronyms. Names. Half sentences.
I understand enough to follow and not enough to participate.
This is normal.
That is the problem.
I watch Maren slide a folder toward Bennett before he asks for it. He taps one paragraph and she says, "Already fixed." He lifts an eyebrow at the wine list and she says, "Don't. You have the Zurich call at seven." He listens.
They are not flirting. They are functioning.
That should comfort me. Instead it exposes the depth of their shared daily life.
A marriage is made of anniversaries and vows, yes, but also of who knows you skipped lunch, who notices the headache before you name it, who hears the silence after a hard meeting and understands whether to fill it.
I know Bennett sleeps on his right side when he is relaxed and flat on his back when he is worried.
I know he rubs the base of his thumb when he is deciding whether to lie by omission.
I know he hates pears, loves terrible action movies, and keeps every handwritten note I have ever given him in a locked drawer he thinks I do not know about.
But Maren knows the weather system of his workday in real time. Lately, that system controls the climate of our home.
When the server offers coffee after dinner, Bennett says, "No, thank you."
Maren looks at him. "Good. You were up until two last night. You'll grind your molars into powder."
The table laughs.
Bennett smiles.
I look at my water glass.
No one has done anything wrong.
Maren is his business partner. They have worked together for thirteen years. Of course she knows his habits.
Except I know her habits too, because Bennett tells me.
Maren forgets to eat when she is anxious. Maren hates flying commercial. Maren calls her mother every Sunday. Maren cannot sleep before board votes. Maren needs someone to tell her when she is spiraling because she will work until dawn rather than admit she is afraid.
When was the last time Bennett told Maren anything about me?
The thought arrives cold.
I glance at him.
He is listening to her describe a regulator's tone on a call.
Fully listening.
Not waiting for a vibration.
Not scanning the room.
Present.
"Elise?"
I turn.
One of the investors, a woman named Diane, is smiling at me.
"Bennett says you toured Europe before Halcyon took off."
"A little. Mostly Germany and Austria."
"Do you miss it?"
The question should be harmless.
Bennett looks at me.
Maren looks at me too.
I say the truth before I can edit it.
"Yes."
Bennett's hand stills against the back of my chair.
Diane smiles. "You should go back. Life is short."
"Diane," her husband says, laughing, "you tell everyone to quit their job and move to Europe."
"Because half of you should."
The table moves on.
Bennett does not.
In the car, he asks, "How much do you miss touring?"
I look out at Michigan Avenue sliding past the window.
"Enough."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
I almost laugh.
"When?"
"Any time."
"At breakfast while you read overnight reports? During dinner when Maren needs board prep? At two in the morning when Zurich calls?"
"That's not fair."
I close my eyes.
"There it is again."
"What?"
"Fair. Like this is a courtroom and if you can prove you never explicitly told me to stop touring, then no one is responsible for how small my life got."
He turns toward me.
"I don't want your life small."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
I look at him.
"Why?"
"Because you say it like understanding me is killing you."
The car goes silent.
I do not answer.
Bennett reaches for my hand.
This time, after a second, I let him take it.
His thumb moves over my wedding ring.
"Let me do better," he says.
I want to believe him so badly that it feels like hunger.
"Then come Saturday," I whisper.
"I will."
"Don't promise if you're going to make me understand why you broke it."
At the investor dinner, I keep catching myself cataloging the differences between what Maren knows and what I know.
It is an ugly exercise because love is not a trivia contest.
I know Bennett hates the skin on warm milk.
Maren knows which senator's chief of staff can ruin his morning.
I know he cannot sleep with a closet door open.
Maren knows when he is bluffing on a regulatory call.
I know the scar under his left rib came from a bicycle accident when he was twelve.
Maren knows he stops eating before board votes.
None of those facts should threaten me.
Facts are not intimacy by themselves.
Access is.
Frequency is.
The reflex to turn toward one person before anyone else.
During dessert, a junior executive approaches Bennett with a problem.
He starts to stand.
Maren touches his sleeve.
"Dev has it."
Bennett pauses.
It lasts maybe one second.
Then he sits back down.
No one at the table notices.
I do.
Later, in the car, I ask, "Was that hard?"
"What?"
"Not getting up."
He looks surprised.
"Yes."
"Why?"
He considers.
"Because if something is wrong and I know about it, doing nothing feels irresponsible."
"Even when someone else is responsible?"
He looks out the window.
"Apparently."
The answer is small.
But it is the first time I hear the flaw without a defense attached.
I think of all the nights I told myself Bennett worked because he had to.
Maybe sometimes he did.
Maybe sometimes he needed the emergency to need him.
That possibility changes the shape of the problem.
A company can create endless emergencies for a man who does not know how to stop volunteering.
A wife cannot compete with infinity.
I do not say that yet.
I am not ready.
But the thought stays with me when his hand finds mine in the dark car.
For once, I do not squeeze back immediately.
I let him feel the half-second where I decide.
His fingers tighten around mine.
"I will be there."