She hesitates, then follows. I rest my hand lightly at the small of her back. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t lean in either.
“What are you doing?” she asks quietly.
I shrug. “Sometimes contractors over-order or return stuff that didn’t work out. For smaller projects, like 200 square feet, you can get it cheap.”
She eyes the stack of returned flooring. “This could work.”
I nod. “It’s marked down … decent savings.”
She glances at me. “Thanks, Sam.”
She walks off to pay, and I stand there, a box of hardwood under my arm, watching my wife walk away with her back straight and her future untethered from mine.
But not for long. She built a life around us. It’s my turn.
9
BECCA
Istep out of the flooring store with a heavy box in my hands and a heavier weight in my chest. Seeing Sam threw me off more than I care to admit. I knew he’d signed the postnup. Phoenix texted me a picture of the notarized document this morning.
I should feel peace. Secure, or at least protected.
Instead, all I feel is … hollow.
I place the box in the back seat, beside the half-price pig’s ear for Bernie. Then I catch my reflection in the window. Who is this version of me—paying invoices, signing contracts alone, making choices Sam should have been making with me?
My mind flashes back to one of our first serious conversations, sprawled on my thrift store couch, legs tangled. Sam had found one of my budget spreadsheets open on my laptop.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, baby,” he says, eyes wide. “But I thought you made, like … less than half that.”
“None taken,” I laugh. Then I open up about how money used to give me stomachaches growing up. How I dreaded the mailman.How I lied about needing field trip money so my parents wouldn’t feel worse. How I never, ever asked for extras.
And then I trusted him with all of it. My mind, heart, body, anxieties, and money.
I run my hand through my hair, then grab Bernie’s treat and head toward the Rothschilds' front door. Their Tudor-style mansion looks like a scene from a Nancy Meyers movie. It has perfect hedges, a limestone entryway, and iron lanterns that glow even in the daylight.
When I unlock the door and step inside, I hear the rhythmic thump of a tail against the base of the stairs.
“Really, Bernard?” I laugh, spotting him sprawled out like a furry throw rug. “What if I was a criminal? You’d just roll over for a belly rub?” I tease.
He rolls with zero hesitation, presenting his stomach like an offering.
“Shameless,” I mutter, kneeling beside him for a long, indulgent scratch.
My phone buzzes with a text from Vanessa:
Nessa
Hey, I know you wanted extra catering shifts. Just talked to my manager and she needs help for the next three weeks. Corporate gigs midweek, weddings on weekends. I sent you the schedule. Pick your poison and I’ll sign us both up.
I could cry. Nessa has always known how to make me feel less alone, even without trying. I pull up the screenshot and scan the calendar. Two weeknights, and one Saturday. The tips alone might help me buy the matte black kitchen faucet I’ve been eyeing for the tiny house.
I text her back:
You’re an angel. Book me Tues/Thurs + next Sat. Let’s hustle
Bernie groans dramatically beside me. I lay my head gently against his.
