And even with the doubts circling now?—
even with the questions?—
I know one thing with absolute certainty:
She’s not pretending to be someone else.
She’s protecting who she used to be.
Work runs late that Friday.
One of those nights where time just slides away from you—calls stacked on calls, a client who won’t stop talking, my BlackBerry buzzing even after I shut my computer down.
By the time I pull onto my block, it’s fully dark.
And there she is.
Sitting on the stoop.
Overnight bag at her feet.
Hair twisted up, sweat-darkened at the collar of her tank top like she walked fast to get here and then waited anyway.
My chest tightens.
I park and hurry over.
“Hey,” she says, smiling like nothing’s wrong.
“Baby, I’m sorry,” I say immediately, pulling her into me. “I got tied up at work.”
She presses her forehead into my chest. “I figured.”
No edge.
No accusation.
Just acceptance.
That almost makes it worse.
I unlock the door and we head upstairs, but halfway up I stop.
Something clicks into place.
I turn back, walk into my bedroom, open the desk drawer.
The spare key is exactly where it’s always been taped to the underside.
I take it out, step back to her, and press it into her palm.
She looks down.
Then up.
Eyes wide.
“For when I’m late,” I say. “Or when you get here before me. Spare key.” I kiss her lips before walking past her to take off my tie.
