Chapter 7
“Did you get the flowers?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t text.”
“I was working.”
He went quiet.
Before the affair, if Daniel sent me flowers, I would have photographed them on my desk.
I would have texted a heart.
I would have changed the water before leaving work.
Now I barely remembered they were there.
“I booked dinner Friday,” he said.
“I have plans.”
“With who?”
The question surprised both of us.
I smiled faintly.
“Lily.”
“Oh.”
“We’re seeing a movie.”
“We can go Saturday.”
“I’m helping Mom clean out Dad’s workshop.”
“Sunday?”
I looked at the calendar beside my computer.
Sunday.
For the first time, there was nothing written.
“I don’t know.”
“Claire, I’m trying.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The expectation.
He was trying.
Therefore, I should respond.
Marriage had become another machine in his life.
Insert flowers.
Receive forgiveness.
Book dinner.
Receive wife.
Say sorry.
Restore previous settings.
“I know you’re trying,” I said.
“What do you want from me?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“How can I fix this if you won’t tell me what to do?”
The question almost made me cry.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was familiar.
For years, Daniel had asked me what needed to be done.
What should we bring to Thanksgiving?
What did Lily need for school?
When was his mother’s appointment?
What time did the plumber say?
Which teacher did he email?
Where were the passports?
When was garbage pickup after the holiday?
He had lived inside a life I administered.
Now even his apology required instructions.
“I can’t manage your remorse for you,” I said.
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“It feels like it.”
He breathed out sharply.
“So you’re just going to punish me forever?”
“No.”
I surprised myself with how certain I sounded.
“I’m going to stop doing things I don’t want to do.”
“What does that mean?”
I looked at the clock.
“It means I have a meeting in two minutes.”
I hung up.
That evening, Lily sat at the kitchen island doing algebra.
I chopped peppers for pasta.
Daniel came home carrying groceries.
“Thought I’d make dinner.”
He held up two bags.
I moved aside.
“Okay.”
He looked almost disappointed.
He had probably expected gratitude.
Maybe praise.
Maybe tears.
He opened the refrigerator.
“Where’s the Parmesan?”
“Door shelf.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It was Sunday.”
He searched.
“Did we use it?”
“I don’t know.”