Chapter 11
Audrey
On the first Saturday in April, I bought lemons, pasta, and a bottle of wine I spent too long choosing.
Then I put the wine in the cupboard because I didn't want courage to come from a glass.
By Saturday afternoon, my apartment was cleaner than necessary and I had changed the sheets. I stood in the bedroom doorway, looking at them, irritated by how much intention a fresh pillowcase could announce.
Nothing had to happen.
I repeated that while cutting the lemons.
The trouble was that I wanted something to happen.
My body had become an object of concern for weeks.
Breathing, sleeping, healing, tiring. At my last follow-up appointment, I had asked the questions I needed to ask and left with reassurance about my recovery.
But reassurance didn't explain how to want my husband without feeling as though I was taking back everything I'd said.
Before he arrived, I called Claire to return a message she'd left about Sunday lunch.
“I can come at one,” I said.
“Good. Bring something green so we can pretend the potatoes aren't the main event.”
We made the arrangement. I nearly ended the call, then said, “Ethan's coming over tonight.”
“I know.”
“Not for furniture.”
A small silence.
“Audrey, you don't need to submit an agenda.”
“I know. I just—”
“You want me not to look strange tomorrow if you sound happy?”
The accuracy made me close my eyes.
“Possibly.”
“I can do that.”
“And if I sound confused?”
“I can do that too. You don't owe me a consistent facial expression while you work things out.”
I laughed softly.
After we hung up, I stood in the kitchen and let the relief reach me. Somewhere in the separation I had acquired the idea that being strong required never wanting him. It was a rule nobody had actually given me, though I had been enforcing it with considerable enthusiasm.
I could want him and still keep my apartment. I could enjoy an evening without making it a referendum on four years of marriage.
The pasta packet was open on the counter. I measured enough for two, put the remainder away, and set out bowls that didn't match.
Then I took the wine back out of the cupboard. One small glass with dinner was a choice I could make without assigning it the job of courage. I poured water too and left both on the table.
I didn't light candles. The lamp by the window gave enough warmth, and I wanted the evening to look like somewhere I lived rather than a scene I'd prepared to prove we could still be romantic.
At six-thirty, he knocked.
He had brought the bread I'd requested and no explanation for its quality.
“Improvement,” I said, inspecting the bag.
“I've been studying crusts.”
“An underrated field.”
He took off his coat. I noticed his forearms when he rolled his sleeves, which was inconveniently immediate.
“Give me a job,” he said.
“Wash those.” I pointed at a bowl of tomatoes. “Try not to acquire the farm.”
His laugh filled the kitchen.
We cooked around each other awkwardly at first. The space was too small for the distance we were pretending to maintain. I reached for salt as he reached for a towel, and his hand brushed my waist.
He moved away.
“You can touch me,” I said.
He looked at me carefully. “I didn't want to assume.”
“I know. I'm telling you.”
His hand returned, light against my side.
There was nothing dramatic about it. No music. The pasta water threatened to boil over, and I had tomato seeds on one finger. Still, I felt the touch all the way through me.
“You're going to burn dinner,” he said.
“You're distracting the architect.”
“I thought you were the chef.”
“Qualifications are fluid in this kitchen.”
We ate at the table we'd assembled with Claire. It held up beneath the bowls, which I mentioned twice. Ethan accepted the criticism on behalf of the construction team.
After dinner, he washed while I dried. He did not ask where every plate belonged in a way that made me supervise the entire task. He remembered enough to be useful and asked about what he didn't know.
It shouldn't have been romantic.
It was.
When I reached past him for the last bowl, he turned. We stood close enough that I could smell soap on his hands and the faint familiar scent of his shirt.
“I've been thinking about kissing you since you came in,” I said.
His expression changed.
“I was trying not to make that obvious.”
“You failed.”
“Good.”
I put the towel down and kissed him.
This time there was no cold street between us and no folder clutched against my chest. His hand settled at my back. Mine moved into his hair. The simple relief of wanting and being wanted made my eyes sting, which annoyed me enough that I laughed against his mouth.
“What?” he whispered.
“Nothing elegant.”
“I've never required elegant.”
“You married into the wrong family for that claim.”
He kissed the corner of my mouth.
I took his hand and led him away from the kitchen.
At the bedroom door, I stopped.
He stopped too.
The bedside lamp lit the mark on my forearm. It looked less angry than it had in January, but it still caught my attention whenever I forgot and saw it again.
Ethan followed my glance.
“Would you rather—”
“No.” I took a breath. “I don't want you to look at me as though I'm still in the hospital.”
His eyes came back to mine.
“How would you like me to look at you?”
The question was so plain that I could answer it.
“Like you want me.”
“I do.”
He said it without lowering his gaze.
“And if I change my mind?”
“Then you change your mind.”
I touched his cheek. He turned his face into my palm, and the tenderness of it reached a place the kiss hadn't.
I let him draw me close.
We moved slowly, with pauses that belonged to us instead of a performance. I could ask. I could laugh when an awkward movement spoiled the mood and discover the mood had survived. When we finally lay together beneath the sheets, I didn't feel restored to a role. I felt present in my own skin.
Later, the room was quiet except for a car passing below.
Ethan brushed my hair away from my face.
“All right?”
“Yes.”
I rested my hand on his chest and listened until his breathing settled.
I didn't say I was coming home.
He didn't ask.
In the morning, I woke before him. Pale light lay across the floor, and his shoes stood beside the door with their laces carelessly open. I had forgotten how much space he occupied even asleep.
For a few minutes, I let myself enjoy it.
Then the old fear arrived. He would read the night as an answer. I would be expected to pack, to reassure, to resume the smooth operation of our marriage because we had remembered how to touch each other.
I got up and made coffee.
He joined me wearing yesterday's shirt, looking softer than he did anywhere outside a bedroom.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
He glanced at my face.
“What is it?”
I wrapped both hands around the mug.
“I want to keep living here.”
He leaned against the counter.
“All right.”
“I mean it.”
“I heard you.”
“Last night doesn't mean—”
“I know what it doesn't mean.” His voice stayed gentle. “Can we also let it mean that we wanted to be together?”
I looked at him.
He waited.
“Yes,” I said finally. “It can mean that.”
He nodded toward the coffee.
“May I stay for some?”
I laughed, a little ashamed of how close I had been to defending myself against something he hadn't done.
“Yes.”
He poured his own cup and sat opposite me.
The morning held no audience and no score to settle. I began to believe I could enjoy it without having to defend the enjoyment afterward.
We ate toast. He complained mildly about the marmalade, which was too bitter for his taste. I told him his taste had been softened by years of unnecessarily expensive breakfast spreads.
It was an ordinary conversation. I treasured it for being ordinary.
Before he left, I mentioned couples counseling.
He stopped with his coat over one arm.
“I'd like that.”
“I don't want someone telling me I'm afraid of happiness because I don't move back quickly enough.”
“Then we find someone who doesn't begin with that conclusion.”
“And I'm not going there to be persuaded to stay.”
His expression became serious.
“Then we won't ask them to persuade you.”
After the door closed, I went back to the bedroom. The sheets were untidy. One of his cufflinks lay beside the lamp.
I put it in the little ceramic bowl and left the rest alone.
For once, I didn't need to tidy away the evidence of wanting something.