Chapter 6
“I thought you might want a break from cooking.”
Once, that would have touched me.
I would have kissed him.
I would have thanked him for remembering my order.
Instead, I looked at the paper bag in his hand and thought about how strange it was that he had remembered exactly which curry I liked while apparently forgetting what twenty-two years of marriage required.
“That’s nice,” I said.
His smile hesitated.
We ate at the table.
He asked about my day.
Not casually.
Carefully.
As though there were correct answers hidden somewhere and he was trying to find them.
I told him about grocery shopping.
A book I had started.
The weather.
Nothing important.
Every few minutes, I caught him watching me.
On Sunday morning, he suggested we go out for breakfast.
“We haven’t done that in forever.”
He was right.
I had suggested breakfast a month earlier.
He had said weekends were the only time he could relax and that I needed to stop scheduling every minute.
Now he stood in the kitchen in a gray sweatshirt, offering exactly what I had wanted.
I almost said yes out of habit.
Then I realized I did not want breakfast with him.
“I already ate.”
“Oh.”
He looked toward the coffee machine.
“We could just get coffee.”
“I’m going for a walk.”
“With who?”
The question came so quickly I stared at him.
“By myself.”
“Where?”
I nearly smiled.
It was not funny.
But there was something almost unbelievable about hearing my own questions come back to me in his voice.
“I don’t know yet.”
Mark frowned.
“You’ve been strange all week.”
“I’ve been quiet.”
“That’s strange for you.”
There it was.
I had spent years being told I talked too much about our problems.
Now silence was apparently another offense.
I put on my coat.
Behind me, Mark said, “Are you mad at me?”
I turned.
He looked genuinely unsettled.
I could have ended it then.
I could have spoken the nine words.
I could have watched the lie leave his face.
But I wasn’t ready.
Not because I needed more evidence.
I had enough.
I needed something else.
I needed to understand what had happened to me.
For eighteen months, every conversation had centered on Mark’s explanations.
His workload.
His stress.
His need for privacy.
His frustration with my suspicions.
Even my pain had somehow become about his discomfort.