Page 29 of Wreckage and Rain

She nods. Takes the sunflowers. Puts them in water. The blue mason jar from the farmers' market.

"I appreciate that."

That's it. Three words. No volley. No banter. No more present? Does that mean you'll actually eat dinner at the table instead of standing over the sink reading emails? No push.

She goes back to her laptop.

I stand in the kitchen with my keys in my hand. Something didn't take like I wanted it to. The flowers were right. The card was right. The intention was right. But she's not warming up like she used to. She used to bury her face in the sunflowers and tell me I was a sap and kiss me with petals between us.

She's not doing that today.

I tell myself it's the timing. We had a rough couple weeks. The flowers will work. Give her a day. Give her the weekend. We'll be back to normal by Monday.

"I love you," I say.

"I love you too."

She doesn't look up.

***

I head to my father's office at eleven.

My father is squaring a stack of papers when I walk in. He aligns them with the edge of the leather blotter. Once. Twice. Sets the stack down.

"Cheyenne pulled an all-nighter on the Calloway revisions."

"She works hard."

"Harder than anyone in this building." He adjusts the angle of his pen. Looks at me. "Including you."

My father's pale eyes do their thing. I sit very still.

"She mentioned you two stayed late on Saturday."

The Saturday I didn't stay late on. Saturday was the night I took a client call for an hour and went home. Cheyenne was there. We were working. But that's not what she told my father. She told him we stayed late together. She made it sound like a partnership. A shared sacrifice.

I open my mouth to correct him. I don't.

Correcting him would mean explaining what I actually did on Saturday, and what I actually did on Saturday was leave Cheyenne in the office while I went home to a wife who was already asleep on the couch by the time I got there. Admittingthat doesn't reflect well on me either. So I let his version stand, and my father lets his version sit between us.

"We're ready for the pitch," I say.

"That's what I like to hear." He nods. The approval nod. Something that's been clenched since I sat down lets go. "Close Tidewater and we have the conversation. The big one."

CEO.

I leave the office and I'm humming. Not literally. Internally. The pleasure of being praised by my father is a drug I have been chasing my entire life and it has never disappointed when I finally get a hit.

***

I'm still at the office at eight thirty. Cheyenne is on the couch in my office and we are pretending to work. Everyone else cleared out an hour ago. The building has the after-hours quiet where the lights are dimmer and every conversation takes on a gravity it wouldn't carry at noon. Cheyenne has her shoes off, laptop on her knees, reading glasses perched on her nose.

She wears reading glasses after hours. I didn't know that until recently.

"Can I ask you something personal?"

"You're going to whether I say yes or not."