The Days Between

CHAPTER FIVE

Sunday, March 26

Andrew

When Andrew returned from his run Sunday morning, Amy was hauling bags from three different gourmet grocery stores into the kitchen. He’d awoken to an empty house, a Post-it scribbled with one word beside the coffee maker: shopping .

“You slept late,” Amy said as Andrew lifted a case of wine from the hatch of her Volvo.

Over the two nights since his encounter with Kathryn, Andrew’s mind had spiraled between restless fits of intermittent sleep. Why wasn’t Nick returning his calls? He’d dialed Nick the moment Kathryn had walked away and unloaded the story as he rushed back to his office, sweating through his suit jacket, but hadn’t heard from Nick since that conversation. They usually spoke every day.

Andrew tossed on the mattress as Kathryn’s words echoed in his mind along with flashes of her face, and the boy’s, the image on her phone screen. He’d finally drifted off, the lines of dreams and lucidity blurred, and he’d woken disoriented, the blankets in a knot at his feet.

“Nightmares.” Andrew leaned against the countertop as his coffee brewed and Amy unpacked her grocery haul. When she didn’t respond, he asked, “How can I help?”

Amy held a mesh bag of potatoes aloft. “I got everything you need to make your potato salad.” A smile parted her lips. A truce.

Relief sparked within him. “You got it, little lady,” he drawled in a South Carolina accent. “It’s not a barbecue without a real southern potato salad.”

Amy’s smile spread and she shook her head, and in a practiced movement, Andrew pulled her to his chest, and Amy wound her arms around him, pressing her forehead into his shirt with a sigh. This was his Amy. This was them . The them they’d built.

He’d met Amy in the dark. It was a Friday morning, and just as he’d stepped into the office of a car rental shop to return the minivan he’d been issued while his car was being serviced, the lights flickered; then the room fell into darkness. Beyond the window, the traffic signals and storefronts were lifeless, lending an apocalyptic feel to the world. Frazzled employees scrambled behind the counter.

Andrew caught the panic on the face of the woman in line before him. “Blackout,” he declared. “Happens a lot.”

It seemed fated in the ease of it. Andrew introduced himself, if anything, to distract the woman, to soothe her nerves. Amy slipped a warm palm into his hand. She was in town to view apartments, he learned. New job.

“The power should come on any minute,” he assured her.

But when the darkness held steady and the room grew stifling, Andrew shifted. “I could show you around town?” He braced for rejection.

“Are you a serial killer?” she’d asked. “I like Dateline , but I don’t want to be on it.”

A shared laugh. The spark of something more. Of promise.

Andrew cherished the flashes of that weekend. Amy was stiff in the passenger seat as he drove her to her showings. Then she’d unwound as the day wore on, as he zipped over the bridges that arched the waterways, an exaggerated tour of Palm Beach. She’d leaned over the console to kiss him the following night after a seafood dinner on the water. On Sunday evening, before Amy caught a red-eye back to California, Andrew brought her to the beach, the sunset catching the puffy clouds, glowing pink and lilac. “I signed the lease for the apartment on Rosemary,” she said. “Is it okay if I call you in two weeks when I get here?”

He reached out, found her hand. “Can you call me when you land tomorrow?”

Amy had found him in the dark, but he fell under her spell in the light. On a Saturday afternoon one month later, after Amy had settled from her move, they’d wandered the butterfly aviary, sun beaming down in columns, warming the earthy air. Andrew had watched her take the stepstones, her sleek black hair brushing her shoulders. She weaved between the lush ferns and bromeliads, careful not to disturb the vegetation. Andrew knew, watching butterflies dance around her hair, he’d always be inferior to her. But instead of feeling a shred of insecurity, this fact made his heart swell with pride. Amy was a natural leader, had to be in her line of work, and he was content to follow her not just down those stepstones, but into a life he could be proud of. Something stable. Solid. Something he once thought he’d never have.

He vowed to himself that if he allowed their love to bloom, he’d give this woman a life she deserved. Those dark things he’d locked away would never come to light.

That was what their partnership was: Solid. Practical. Before he’d cracked the box on that two-carat ring and asked her to merge her life with his, they’d had the necessary discussions, checked the boxes: money, religion, politics. Check, check, check. And children. Adoption, Andrew had said. He’d told her of his panic attacks. That he was prone to anxiety. Depression. He took medication for both. Family history, he explained.

Amy’s forehead had pinched, but she considered, then a simple word: “Okay.”

A surge of relief. He could give her everything. And he could protect himself, too.

Until a year ago, when Amy had gotten the news her mother’s breast cancer had metastasized. One morning at breakfast, she’d lifted her espresso. “I’d like to try naturally.” It wasn’t a question. She’d made up her mind.

“Amy, we talked about this.”

“Andrew.” Her deep eyes met his. “There are things in my family history, too: doctorates. We both have strong, loving families. A predisposition for depression is something to keep an eye on. I’m a physician, leave that up to me.” Her lips lifted into a smile, and she found his fingers on the table, squeezed. “We have so much love to offer.”

He’d promised to give her the life she dreamed of. So he’d conceded. But with each passing month she failed to conceive, he harbored a relief he couldn’t share with his wife. Amy’s frustration bloomed until the blowup that Friday morning.

In the kitchen, Andrew cupped her head and pressed his lips to her crown. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this until he didn’t have it. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he said.

“I am, too.” Amy’s voice was muffled by his shirt. She took a step back, her eyes glassy. “I’m sorry I lost my cool.”

He tipped her chin upward. “I never want to fight with you again.”

Amy nodded and stood on tiptoe to bring her lips to his. He drew her in, her familiar softness, her delicate, soapy scent. In the very place they’d fought, they came together, and Andrew felt the balance between them restored. It was as if he’d woken from a deep sleep, refreshed. The fight was a fluke, a smudge on their otherwise impeccable slate.

“Dr. Cassidy will help us tomorrow,” Amy said, turning to the counter. “We’ll have good news soon.”

I have a son. And she doesn’t know. The thought boomed so loudly he was surprised Amy couldn’t hear it. And it was on the tip of his lips; he could tell her, rip open the wound, get it over with. But that electricity awoke in his fingertips. He couldn’t tell Amy about Max without telling her about Kathryn. Without telling her everything. She wouldn’t want this life with him if she knew.

Andrew snatched the bag of potatoes from the counter and wrangled his focus, tapped into the most deep-seated of southern coping mechanisms: masking guilt with rich food.

They fell into familiar choreography; Andrew knew his way around the kitchen, but he was happy when Amy took charge, delegating tasks the way he imagined she did in the operating room, with total control. As she mixed a marinade, Amy chatted about work, as if she was in a rush to share all the events she’d withheld from him after their fight all at once.

It was exactly two o’clock when the first guests arrived. Andrew had just stepped out of the shower and was buttoning his shirt in the dim bedroom when voices floated from downstairs.

Fuck. It was a barbecue, not court. Couldn’t people be fashionably late?

He straightened, softened his jaw, relished the final moments of his solitude before he prepared to play the part of the perfect husband Amy deserved. Downstairs, his boss, Larry, boomed a greeting. Dread swept over Andrew and he cringed; he hadn’t faced Larry since their formal conversation on Friday morning, when Andrew had stoically rejected the promotion. He drew one more breath, then jogged down the staircase. Amy’s delicate hand rested on the front door as she welcomed Larry and his wife inside. Behind Larry, Phil and his wife—Andrew had forgotten her name—called a greeting. Then the hallway was bursting with bodies, bottles of wine and sealed plastic containers swapping hands, cheek kisses, and chatter. Andrew watched two more cars turn into the driveway. That itch in his palms. Heat rising in his neck.

“Hey.” Amy met his eyes. “Look at me. Are you okay?”

The group moved deeper into the house, away from them, and Andrew’s system settled.

Andrew reached out and set a hand on her arm, craving her skin against his once again. “Yeah, I’m good.” She glowed in a strapless lavender sundress. “Honey—you look beautiful.” Amy’s cheeks warmed a rosy tint, her lips lifting into a smile.

Ten minutes later the men stood on the deck, clutching cold beers, swapping competitive small talk, sweating in their linen shirts. Amy guided the wives on a tour of the house while Andrew busied himself with prepping the grill. On a trip into the kitchen, Andrew filled a highball with iced tea, then collected a foil-covered plate of kabobs from their massive Sub-Zero.

The gaggle of wives trailed Amy up the hallway. Lilly Pulitzer sundresses and glossy nails, heels tapping the tile, their veneer-smiled compliments laced with envy.

Andrew stepped onto the deck, into the sticky heat, where Larry intercepted him. A knot braided in Andrew’s stomach. “This house is really something, Andrew. And the view, damn.”

Andrew squinted from behind his sunglasses at the layers of crystal-blue water glittering between the palm fronds. He tipped his glass. “Thanks.”

Larry’s stance was wide. “I can’t lie, I was shocked when you turned down the offer. Shocked doesn’t do it justice. Since you walked in all those years ago, bright eyed and bushy tailed, you’ve been laser focused on this position. I didn’t picture anyone else taking my place. I don’t have a plan B.”

Andrew felt his smile harden. “Yeah, well, like I said, Amy and I discussed it at length, but with her working nights the travel wouldn’t be feasible.”

“I get it, man.” Larry clapped a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “You’re married to South Florida’s hottest trauma surgeon.”

Andrew forced a smile. “That I am.”

“When kids come along, priorities change, but they’ll be worth the sacrifice,” Larry said. “Well, mostly.” He motioned to his dome of a head, shining in the sunlight. “Some men would kill for the chance to let the missus rake in the cash while they play Mr. Mom.”

Andrew was about to tell Larry he didn’t let Amy work, but the patio door glided open, and Nick stepped outside, the gel in his hair glistening. Andrew excused himself from Larry, the knot in his stomach twisting. Since the moment Nick’s name had appeared on Kathryn’s lips, questions had mounted in Andrew’s mind, blooming into suspicions during those nearly sleepless nights.

Amy had given Nick a beer, and he greeted the men on the back porch. They’d met; Nick popped into Andrew’s office for lunch at least once a month, but the Tommy Bahama–clad men offered Nick aggressive handshakes.

“I didn’t do anything, Officer, I swear.” A voice sailed over the yard, and the men bellowed.

Nick ambled away. “Your friends are fun, as always,” he said as he approached Andrew, brows knitted.

“I know.” Andrew gestured to the small crowd gathered on his deck. “The only break I get from these guys is on the weekend.” He peeled the foil away from the tray. “Nice of you to return my calls yesterday.”

Nick tipped his beer to his lips, the glass beaded with condensation. “I had company.”

The kabobs sizzled as Andrew laid them across the grill, and the smell of onion rose in the air. “Whatever. We need to talk.” Nick’s mouth hardened, and Andrew set his foot on a stone that wound down an uncertain path, one he’d been avoiding for twenty years. He drizzled marinade over the meat, making it sizzle. “Kathryn asked if I knew, if you’d told me.” He gave Nick the space to explain Kathryn’s question. She’d seemed so certain Nick had broken the news about Max. When Nick didn’t respond, Andrew’s suspicion ticked up a degree. “She knew where I worked.” Andrew held his tone steady.

And there it was, revealed in a subtle nod of admission from Nick. “I ran into her a little while after I moved into town.”

Andrew’s stomach dropped.

“You knew.” When the words left his mouth, it was as if he had no more breath in him. Andrew leaned forward. “You knew I had a kid, and you didn’t tell me?”

Nick folded his arms across his chest. “Kat made me promise I wouldn’t.”

Kat. Andrew hadn’t thought of her that way in years. “Do you talk to her? Like, regularly?”

“Here and there.”

Nick’s admissions crashed over Andrew. “And—you told her I was moving to Delray?”

Nick nodded again. “Yeah.”

Amy stepped onto the porch and looked in their direction. Andrew’s throat constricted, but one of the wives touched Amy’s arm and pulled her into conversation. His heart thudded, and he leaned closer to Nick, decades-old suspicions nudging their way to the surface. “You promised her, but what about me? You didn’t think to warn me we’d all be living in the same town?”

The day Andrew had told Nick their offer on the house had been accepted, the phone line had gone flat. Andrew blamed a spotty connection, a dead zone, maybe, but now that silence rang in his ears.

“She made me swear I wouldn’t say anything. She wanted to be the one to tell you.” Beads of sweat formed at his temples.

Nick had always kept certain parts of himself private. Andrew knew in a sort of process of elimination that there were large parts of Nick’s life he never talked about. Andrew had learned of relationships Nick had had well after they’d ended. He took long international vacations, often alone, and returned in a pensive mood that lasted for weeks. Andrew chalked it up to the fact that Nick valued his privacy.

Andrew leaned closer. “I would think your relationship with your best friend would take precedence over ... whatever Kathryn has on you.”

Nick might value his privacy, but after two decades of friendship, Andrew was familiar with Nick’s short fuse, recognized in the narrowing of his brows that his limit was near.

“Listen,” Nick said. “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Kat: I’m not going to get in the middle of this. Do I need to remind you what happened the last time you went down this road?” Andrew held Nick’s gaze, waiting for his friend to drag up the ugly silt they’d let settle at the bottom of their relationship. “When you got serious with Amy, I told you to tell her everything. I told you keeping things from the woman you were planning to propose to would blow up in your face.”

“It’s a little late now, don’t you think?” Andrew snapped, shutting the grill with a bang.

Nick responded with steely silence.

“Fuck, Nick, the timing literally couldn’t be worse. We just moved, Amy started a new job, she’s waited months to get an appointment with this doctor. And her mom is sick. This is just ... the timing sucks.” Andrew had nothing left with which to finish the sentence but a thousand different nightmares rolled into one.

Andrew looked at his wife, the afternoon sun warming her face. When Amy had come into his life, she’d filled it with promise and light at a point when he never thought they could exist in his universe again. When she made a decision, she never deviated from the path, while Andrew had been white-knuckling his life, trying to stay the course. Amy was meticulous, from the way she tucked the corners of the bed, to the way she filled his space with a softness it seemed she reserved for him, to the way she wiped the porcelain basin dry after she used the sink. Even the way she loved him was precise.

Andrew’s relationship with Kathryn had been passionate and intense. Amy was sunshine, was the fresh air after a storm had cleared, when the world felt clean with renewed promise. She was safety. He was so close to giving her the life he’d promised, the life he’d promised himself. So close.

“You’re not going to tell Amy, are you?” Nick didn’t bother to hide his surprise, or his judgment.

Andrew shook his head. “Maybe. But not yet. We just had a huge fight, and for the first time, it made me question us.”

Nick frowned. “If you’re looking for my advice—”

“I’m not—”

“Tell Amy about the kid and let it go. You have everything you could ever want.” He gestured around them. “Get it out in the open and move on. And stay far away from Kathryn Moretti.”

Andrew rounded on Nick. “Stay away from her, like you did?”

“We went out for a few drinks. It’s not the same.”

A few drinks. Andrew’s chest pulled when he imagined Nick and Kathryn together, sharing his secrets, discussing his son without his knowledge. Andrew hadn’t expected Nick to defend Kathryn, and unwelcome jealousy surged. “And Max? Have you met him?”

Nick’s eyes flicked up, and Andrew knew the answer in an instant. The envy he felt when he imagined Nick meeting the son he didn’t know took him by surprise. A rush of questions vied to escape his lips. How did they meet? Did they talk about him? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Biological. Kathryn had used the word, which invoked images of test tubes and medical settings, of control. But he had no control over this situation. Kathryn had stolen it from him. A long minute stretched before Andrew spoke. “Tell me about him. Is he ... okay?”

Nick’s jaw tensed. He shrugged, the way he often did. “He’s a trust fund baby. Spoiled, does whatever the hell he wants. Kat lets him get away with murder.”

Max sounded like a teenager. Not far off from the way Andrew had spent his youth. And something sprouted in him. If Max was fine, a normal kid, maybe his fears about any children he and Amy may have had no footing. The thought soothed him, a lifetime’s worth of concern melting away.

“Tell me about Kathryn.”

Nick’s eyes again flicked to Andrew’s face, and he shook his head. “I don’t want to get involved in this.”

“I don’t know anything about her. Please.”

An exasperated sigh from Nick. “What is it you feel like you need to know?”

“What’s she like? What’s her life been like since ...?”

A sigh of surrender from Nick. “Listen, don’t tell Kathryn I said any of this.”

A flicker of hope. Andrew would agree to anything if Nick would give him any bit of information. And tell Kathryn? The idea of speaking to Kathryn again sparked something inside him, deep, primal. Terrifying. Thrilling.

Nick’s fingers were white as he clutched his beer. “She lives over on Cherry Street. Made partner at her firm a few years ago.”

“Is she married?”

Nick paused. “No. There was someone a while back—a long time ago—but that’s over now.”

“Is that why she left me, for him?”

Nick’s shrug was slight, dismissive. “I don’t know.”

But Nick’s words had flared something else to life. Something dormant. He needed answers from Kathryn. He had to know what she’d been hiding from him that morning she’d disappeared, and everything that had happened in the days between the last time he saw her and that moment. It was all he’d wanted for twenty years.