Chapter 8
Audrey
For three days, I did not ask Ethan anything.
No questions about Vivian. No messages checking whether he had really stopped speaking to her. I could have turned the rest of my life into monitoring his, and the temptation was stronger than I liked.
Instead, I went to work.
On Monday, Ruth looked at my proposed foyer arrangement and said, “Where does the youth group put its coats?”
I pointed to a recessed space beside the new circulation route.
“And when sixty children arrive in wet jackets?”
“Sixty?”
“Children are inconveniently numerous when you offer them somewhere warm.”
Daniel leaned against the edge of the table, wisely silent.
I looked at the drawing again. It was elegant. It also assumed the people using it would arrive singly, behave politely, and possess very small coats.
“Then this doesn't work.”
“It works beautifully for a brochure,” Ruth said. “I need it to work on a Tuesday.”
I pulled another sheet toward me.
By lunch, we had moved storage, adjusted a doorway, and found an arrangement that didn't force children to choose between access and a dry jacket. I had also admitted twice that my first plan wasn't good enough.
Neither admission killed me.
At home, I thought about Ethan's unanswered question. Not his answer, exactly. The moment he had stopped reaching for one that would make the room easier.
I missed him.
That remained true alongside everything else. I missed his quiet laugh and the way he noticed which side of a room made me cold. I missed arguing about things that didn't decide our future. I missed being desired by someone who knew my history, even if he had lately failed to respect it.
I picked up my phone.
Would you meet me for a drink Thursday? Copper Finch. Seven. I need to leave by eight-thirty.
His reply came while I was still staring at the message.
Yes. I'll be there.
No question about whether this meant something. I was grateful for that, then annoyed that gratitude had become the reward for ordinary restraint.
On Wednesday, I had my first appointment with the therapist the hospital had recommended. I expected to spend the hour describing flames. Instead, I talked about embarrassment: the photograph, needing help, leaving a house other people thought should have made me happy.
She asked what I wanted from the appointment.
“To stop feeling ridiculous for being frightened.”
“Do you believe fear is ridiculous?”
“In other people? No.”
She waited.
I sighed. “I see what you did there.”
We discussed sleep and the moments when a smell or a sound pulled me out of the present. She offered practical approaches and asked which I thought I could use. There was no promise that remembering would stop hurting by a particular date.
When I left, I booked another appointment.
It had nothing to do with whether Ethan earned another chance. That distinction mattered. I needed somewhere the subject was my life, even on days when he occupied less of it.
At home, I put the appointment in my calendar beside the theatre meetings. My recovery would have a place among my responsibilities instead of waiting until everything else was finished.
On Thursday, I changed clothes three times.
The first outfit looked like a meeting. The second looked as though I wanted to prove I was having an excellent time without him. The third was a green sweater and jeans, which had been available all along.
I left before I could restart the process.
The Copper Finch glowed amber against the wet pavement. Inside, rain ticked at the windows, and rosemary drifted from a plate of fries passing my shoulder. The bar was busy enough to make us ordinary.
Ethan stood when I reached the table.
“Please don't look that relieved,” I said.
“I'll aim for mild disappointment.”
“Much more attractive.”
He smiled and pulled back his chair rather than mine. I sat without needing to accept or refuse a gesture.
A server came over. I ordered sparkling water first. Ethan ordered beer, then asked whether I wanted food.
“Fries.”
“Anything else?”
“Let's see whether we survive the fries.”
“Reasonable.”
For a moment, we both studied the menu after we had finished needing it.
“How's the theatre?” he asked.
“Full of coats, apparently.”
I told him about Ruth and the youth group. He laughed at the right part and asked what we'd changed. I described the new arrangement with my hands until I noticed him watching them.
“What?”
“You do that when you're interested.”
“What?”
“Build the room in the air.”
I lowered my hands self-consciously.
“Don't,” he said. “I like it.”
The server brought our drinks. I took a sip to give myself something to do.
“Did you reserve the whole corner?” I asked.
“No.”
“Threaten anybody?”
“Only myself. I got here too early.”
“How early?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“That is embarrassingly punctual.”
“I walked around the block twice.”
I laughed before I could decide whether I wanted him to know I found it sweet.
His shoulders eased.
The fries arrived, hot enough to punish impatience. I ate one anyway and regretted it immediately.
“Still doing that,” he said.
“Still narrating my mistakes.”
“I was going to offer water.”
“An excellent recovery.”
It was easy for perhaps six minutes.
Then he called the evening a date.
I put down my glass.
He noticed. “Wrong word?”
“I don't know.”
“Then a drink.”
“I don't need you to agree with every correction.”
“I'm trying not to decide what you meant before you tell me.”
That was fair enough to irritate me.
I looked around the room. A couple near the window argued gently about directions. At the bar, two women shared a plate, one listening with her chin on her hand. Ordinary people making room for each other without a marriage counselor drawing a diagram.
“I missed liking you,” I said.
Ethan's expression changed, but he didn't interrupt.
“I still loved you. That was part of the problem. I'd hear your key in the door and be pleased, then remember I was angry. Eventually I started hoping you'd come home after I was asleep because I couldn't manage both feelings.”
He watched me across the table.
“I didn't know it had become that.”
“I tried to tell you. Sometimes badly.”
“I didn't listen well when you told me clearly.”
I let that stand. I wouldn't do his apologizing for him by explaining how busy he had been.
“What did you miss?” I asked.
“Before you left?”
I nodded.
He thought rather than producing something handsome.
“The way you used to interrupt me.”
That surprised me.
“You hated being interrupted.”
“At work. With you, it meant you thought what you had to say belonged in the room.”
I looked down at the salt scattered beside the plate.
“I didn't realize I'd made you stop,” he said.
“I'm interrupting you now.”
“Please do.”
“I don't want the rest of tonight to be an autopsy.”
His laugh was quiet and a little unsteady.
“All right.”
We talked about the bookshop near the theatre. A terrible film Claire had made me watch. His attempt to cook, which involved a smoke alarm and a dinner abandoned in favor of sandwiches.
He stopped after mentioning the alarm.
“I'm all right,” I said. “You can say the word.”
“I wasn't sure.”
“Ask when you're not sure. Don't make my world smaller on my behalf.”
He nodded.
Then he asked what I was reading.
“A book I gave you three birthdays ago.”
He winced.
“You didn't finish it.”
“No.”
“Did you start it?”
“I read the first chapter.”
“You told me it was interesting.”
“The first chapter was.”
I stared at him until he laughed at himself.
“That sounded better in my head.”
“At least you're finally reviewing the portion you actually consumed.”
At eight-twenty, he glanced at the clock above the bar.
“Would you like the check?”
I wanted to stay. I also wanted to know that the boundary could survive my uncertainty.
“Yes.”
Outside, the rain had stopped. The pavement reflected light from the windows. Ethan walked beside me as far as the corner where our routes separated.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
“I'd like to kiss you,” he said.
My breath caught. Four years of marriage, and the request felt more intimate than some nights we'd spent together.
I wanted his mouth. I wanted the familiar weight of his hand at my waist. I also wanted to get home with the evening still something I could understand.
“Not yet.”
He nodded. “All right.”
No wounded silence. No joke about how much restraint he deserved credit for.
“Good night, Audrey.”
“Good night.”
I walked home slowly.
At the apartment, I took off my boots, washed my face, and stood at the kitchen counter eating the last cold fry I had brought in a napkin. Apparently independence had limits of dignity.
Then I sent him a message.
Dinner next Thursday. Same rules.
I set the phone down.
Picked it up again.
When his answer appeared, I was already smiling.