Chapter 9
Elise
Sunday is almost cruel in how good it is.
Bennett wakes before me and makes coffee badly.
This matters because we own a machine that costs more than my first cello and he still manages to produce something that tastes like burned regret.
I take one sip and make a face.
"It's artisanal," he says.
"It's a hate crime."
He laughs.
We are barefoot in the kitchen. No suit. No assistant calling. No news channel murmuring in the background. The phone lies inside a drawer because Bennett apparently decided power tools were required for trust and disconnected the smart home panel that forwards office alerts.
"You broke the house," I say.
"For love."
"Very romantic."
He makes eggs.
I cut fruit.
The ordinariness is intoxicating.
After breakfast, we walk to the lake even though the sky threatens rain. Bennett buys me hot chocolate from a cart and remembers I hate whipped cream. We sit on a bench watching runners pass.
"Do you remember Vienna?" he asks.
I look at him.
"Which disaster?"
"The hotel with one towel."
"There were two towels."
"One was decorative."
"You tried to dry your hair with a bath mat."
"I was twenty-eight."
"You were helpless."
"And you loved me."
I did.
I do.
That is the inconvenient center of everything.
The wind pushes my hair across my face. Bennett reaches over and tucks it behind my ear.
"I didn't understand what was happening," he says.
"With us?"
"With you."
"I'm still here."
"That may be why I didn't understand."
I look away.
He continues before I can protect him from the thought.
"Every crisis at Halcyon announced itself. Red alerts. Calls. Lawyers. People saying my name like the building was on fire. You never did."
"I shouldn't have to be on fire to get your attention."
"No."
He says it immediately.
No defense.
No explanation.
Something in me loosens.
We walk home in light rain.
Halfway there, Bennett stops beneath the awning of a closed bookstore and pulls me close. For one second I tense, then his forehead rests against mine.
"I know Sunday doesn't fix anything," he says.
"Good."
"But I want more days like it."
"So do I."
The confession scares me because wanting is an opening. I have spent years protecting myself by wanting quietly.
We wander into a grocery store and argue about tomatoes.
Bennett insists expensive ones must taste better.
I make him blind-test three kinds in the kitchen.
He loses, accuses me of manipulating the sample, and demands a retrial.
Later we find the old wedding video and watch fifteen minutes before embarrassment forces us to turn it off.
In the footage, Bennett looks at me during our first dance with an expression so naked I have to pause the screen.
"You still look at me like that sometimes," I say.
He takes my hand. "Not enough."
That is the whole tragedy in two words.
By afternoon, I have changed into old sweatpants and Bennett is sitting on the living-room floor with the watch box open.
The old watch rests in his palm.
He has attached the leather strap.
COME HOME TO ME is hidden against his wrist.
My throat tightens.
"You don't have to wear that."
"I want to."
"It's probably worth fifty dollars."
"Then I can finally afford to lose it."
I laugh.
He looks up at me from the floor.
"I am sorry about our anniversary."
"I know."
"No." He shakes his head. "I want to say it without making you comfort me. I left because I decided Maren's need was urgent and yours could wait. I told myself work made that reasonable. It wasn't."
The apology is specific enough to hurt.
I sit beside him.
"Thank you."
He exhales slowly.
We do not solve the marriage.
We order pizza.
We watch a terrible movie.
At midnight, in bed, Bennett reaches for me and stops.
"Can I?"
The question makes my eyes sting.
I nod.
He kisses me slowly.
There is no desperate attempt to prove we are fine. No apology hidden inside sex. Just my husband touching me as if he is paying attention to the fact that I am there.
Later, with my head on his chest, I listen to his heartbeat.
"I missed you," he says into my hair.
"I was right here."
His arm tightens.
"I know."
For once, the words do not feel like an excuse.
I close my eyes.
I let myself hope.
That is the mistake that makes what happens next hurt so much.