Page 16 of Wreckage and Rain

I catch up with her on the sidewalk.

“You okay?”

“I’m great.” The wide smile is back. It doesn’t touch her eyes. “Just walking. The air feels nice.”

“Let me drive you.”

“No, thank you.”

She keeps moving.

“Summer, come on. Let me drive you.”

She doesn’t turn around.

I follow for half a block, still talking, but she walks faster, and finally I stop.

I watch my wife continue down King Street with her shoulders straight and a market bag hanging from one hand.

Something tight rises in the back of my throat.

It isn’t guilt.

I didn’t do anything.

I had dinner with a colleague. Summer happened to walk by. She joined us. The evening got uncomfortable, and now everyone is going home.

That is all that happened.

Except I can still see her face when she reached the table.

The smile she had to put on after she saw us.

Summer didn’t come to The Butcher Block because she suddenly wanted risotto. Not in that sweater. Not at that hour. Not with a market bag in her hand.

She saw us through the window.

She stood outside and looked in at me laughing with Cheyenne across a candlelit table after I told her I was at the office.

It was work.

We had a deadline. Cheyenne chose the restaurant because it was close. The candle was already there. The wine was part of dinner.

None of those things is a lie.

But I lied when I told Summer where I was.

And when she walked in and gave me the chance to tell the truth, I called it a strategy session and watched her sit down.

Because standing up, taking her home, or admitting how the table looked would have meant acknowledging there was something to explain.

I go back to my car and sit behind the wheel without starting it.

Something has been wrong between us for weeks.

Longer than weeks.

Summer has gotten quieter. She doesn’t ask about my day unless I bring it up. On the couch, her hand no longer finds mine without either of us thinking about it first.