Epilogue
Elise
One year later, Bennett forgets our anniversary phone in a drawer.
Not the anniversary.
The phone.
I find it vibrating beside the silverware while he is in the kitchen destroying a sauce.
"Your empire is calling," I say.
He leans around the doorway wearing an apron that says KISS THE COOK and an expression of deep suspicion.
"Is it on fire?"
I glance at the screen.
A Halcyon group thread.
Maren: Happy anniversary to the only two people I know who made couples therapy sound like a corporate restructuring. Do not answer this until tomorrow.
Under it, Dev has sent a cake emoji.
I smile.
"No fire."
"Then the empire can wait."
He disappears back into the kitchen.
I put the phone away.
The apartment looks different now.
Not because we redecorated, although Bennett finally admitted the gray chairs looked like expensive dental equipment.
Because there is evidence of both of us.
My music stand near the windows.
His product sketches on the desk.
Tour programs framed beside Halcyon's first incorporation certificate.
Two calendars on the wall by the kitchen, absurdly analog because Dr. Price suggested we make our time visible.
My spring dates are marked in blue.
Bennett's board travel is in black.
Tonight is circled in red.
No phones after six.
Bennett completed his transition six months ago.
He is Executive Chair now, which means he still works too much by normal standards and dramatically less by his own.
Maren runs operations. Dev runs incident response.
The company has not collapsed without Bennett personally answering every midnight call.
He occasionally seems disappointed by this.
I came home after the spring tour.
Not immediately.
First we spent three more weeks dating while married, which sounds ridiculous and was exactly what we needed.
Then I moved one suitcase back.
Then the cello.
Then the rest.
We still see Dr. Price twice a month.
Last week, I told Bennett I was angry that he scheduled a board retreat during a performance weekend.
He changed the retreat.
I did not apologize for asking.
This may be our greatest romance.
"Dinner!" he calls.
I walk into the kitchen.
The sauce is lumpy.
The chicken is suspicious.
There are candles anyway.
Bennett pulls out my chair.
"Eight years plus one," he says.
"Nine years."
"That sounds less dramatic."
I sit.
He takes the chair across from me.
For a moment, we simply look at each other.
I think of Bellini's two anniversaries ago.
The phone lighting with Maren's name.
The empty chair.
The tiramisu I ate alone.
Pain does not disappear because a story ends well.
It changes place.
It stops being the room you live in and becomes a room you remember surviving.
Bennett reaches across the table.
"Where are you?" he asks.
It is one of the questions Dr. Price taught us.
Not geographically.
Emotionally.
"Here," I say.
His thumb moves across my wedding ring.
"Me too."
The phone vibrates once in the drawer.
Neither of us moves.
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