As if everything—people, marriage, even grief—could be penciled in like another weekly board meeting. And so he expected her home. Wanted his dinner on the table by five o’clock. And it was almost Thursday, and that’s when they had sex.
“She’s happy,” Leanne added, softer now. “My mom.”
“She’ll be happier when she’s back in New York,” Dean said, the certainty in his voice cutting like a blade.
But Leanne wasn’t so sure. When they returned to New York, Dean wasn’t the only one she’d have to have a challenging conversation with. Where serious life decisions would have to be made. What did hermother want? What was the plan when her mother couldn’t live alone anymore? What was the plan when she didn’t remember who she was?
Leanne’s fingers tightened around the receiver, knuckles white. The phone cord coiled like a snake around her wrist, the plastic slick with sweat. Heat climbed up her neck, and her breath quickened.
How could he speak with such authority about a person he barely knew?
The thought rose in her chest like a wave—and this time, she didn’t stop it. “Sometimes people are happy doing things they love,” she said aloud, her voice firm, no longer trying to keep the peace.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Of course, he didn’t understand. Of course, he bristled the second she questioned anything—his routines, needs, and expectations. He liked her pliant. Predictable. And she had been for so many years.
But not anymore.
“It means”—she kept her voice steady now, finding the confidence to tell him what she needed to—“we’re going to have a serious conversation when I get home.”
She had no idea what that conversation with Dean would look like. But she had a couple weeks to form the words. And frankly, a couple weeks for him to figure some things out too.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked again, his voice, at last, edged with something other than indifference.
“It means things need to change.” Leanne hung up the phone.
Not because she was trying to be dramatic. But because she didn’t owe him more than that. Especially when he wasn’t even concerned. He was only concerned with one thing: himself.
And if that wasn’t a clue about how their future would unfold, then she’d been wearing blinders for twenty years.
Leanne stepped out of the phone booth, the summer air pressing against her skin like steam. Across the parking lot, a young couple wasnecking on a bench, tangled in each other like they didn’t care who saw. Leanne offered them the ghost of a smile and kept walking.
Next door, a dive bar with flickering neon signage called her in like a confessional booth.
She wasn’t one for bars. She wasn’t one for drinking, really. But that was mainly because Dean didn’t think it was appropriate for his wife to imbibe too much. He preferred she stick to sherry or the occasional white wine cocktail at parties.
Tonight, she didn’t care what Dean preferred.
She stepped inside, her borrowed sandals clicking against the sticky floor, and slid onto a cracked brown vinyl stool. The air smelled like cigarette smoke and regret. A Patsy Cline song crooned from a battered jukebox in the corner.
“What’ll it be?” The bartender was wiping a glass with a towel that looked like it had seen better decades.
“Whiskey,” she said, surprising even herself. “Neat.”
He raised a brow but poured it without question. Leanne took the glass in both hands and stared at the contents, letting it catch the dim light like gold.
The first sip burned in the best way.
This wasn’t a polite glass of wine. This wasn’t a husband-approved cocktail on a coaster. This was a shot of fire that went straight to her belly and told her she was still alive.
Leanne grabbed a handful of peanuts from the communal bowl, the shells gritty against her fingers. She cracked them open and tossed them back like a woman who knew what she was doing—even if she didn’t.
“Another,” she said when the first glass was empty.
The bartender grinned and poured her a second. Leanne spun the shot glass slowly on the bar top, watching the whiskey swirl like liquid courage. She thought of all the nights she’d played bartender to Dean.Perfectly measured old-fashioneds, soda water for herself. The good little wife. The quiet little shadow.
Not tonight.
