Page 20 of Wreckage and Rain

He looks like a man who genuinely doesn’t know the answer.

He takes another step, slower this time.

“I love you.”

I fold my arms over myself.

“There is nothing going on with Cheyenne. I swear to you. I handled tonight badly. I should’ve told you we were leaving the office. I should’ve called. I should’ve seen how that table would look.”

“How it would look,” I repeat.

“How it would feel,” he corrects quickly. “I should’ve thought about how it would feel to you.”

It is exactly the right thing to say.

That scares me more than if he had said the wrong thing.

He moves closer, stopping before he reaches me.

“You are my wife. You are the person I come home to. There is no version of my life where I choose her over you.”

I want to believe him so badly it makes me feel sick.

Because every piece of his explanation fits if I turn it the right way.

The deadline is real. I know that.

The candle could have meant nothing.

The wine could have been two coworkers at the end of a long week.

Cheyenne could touch everyone when she talks. She could lean in because that’s simply how she listens.

Maybe I saw a mirror across that table because I was already afraid there would be one.

Maybe I built the whole thing from distance and candlelight and a marriage I no longer know how to read.

Or maybe I have become so desperate to keep him that I will accept any version of the truth that lets me stay.

“Okay,” I say.

Relief moves through his entire body.

“Okay?”

“I’m tired.”

He reaches for me.

I step out of the way.

His hand falls.

“I’m going to bed.”

I walk past him and start up the stairs with his explanation pressed against my chest, held there like something fragile.

Something I have decided not to examine too closely.