Page 44 of Her Unending Horizon

I almost laughed. “Please don’t make him stroke out in front of the fridge.”

“Seriously, though,” Trenda said. “Do you want us to talk to him? Run interference? Bring food? Bring wine? Sic the men on him? If he likes to fight, Simon could give him a run for his money, being a retired SEAL and all.”

“I know! We could cancel his gym membership,” Zoe said as she snapped her fingers.

“Hey,” Maddie cut in. “Sabotaging a man’s gym membership is a war crime in some states.”

I shook my head. “I just… need you to listen. And not… push. Or panic. Or start planning a second wedding or a divorce party.”

“Fine,” Zoe said. “I’ll cancel the marching band.”

Trenda nudged my foot with hers. “We’ve got you,” she said simply. “Whatever you decide.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Also,” I added, “I need you to get the hell out of the house in about ten minutes so I can cook dinner.”

Three sets of eyebrows went up.

“For Zarek?” Maddie asked, like there might be another man hidden in the pantry.

“No, for the mailman,” I said dryly. “Yes, for Zarek.”

Trenda perked up immediately. “I can cook.”

“You already helped by letting me tempt him with your lasagna. Now it’s up to me.”

“Okay, Honey. We’ll be here however you need us.” Trenda said with her warm, big sister smile.

Her words sank into the walls like medicine.

I herded them toward the door with hugs and promises.

“Call if you need us,” Maddie said.

“Or if you don’t,” Zoe added. “We’ll probably show up anyway.”

Trenda cupped my face in her hands. “You look better,” she said quietly. “Not fixed. But better.”

I nodded, blinking hard. “Work in progress.”

“Aren’t we all,” she murmured, and kissed my forehead before they finally let me shut the door.

The house felt bigger when they were gone. Quieter. The clock in the hallway suddenly seemed very loud.

I checked the time.

Four o’clock.

He should be home soon.

Cooking felt safer than sitting.

I rummaged through the fridge he’d organized within an inch of its life and tried to pick something that said “I care” but not “welcome home to our second honeymoon” or “I’m trying to fix our marriage with carbs.”

I landed on roasted chicken thighs with potatoes and green beans. Simple. Solid. It would smell good, and it would give him leftovers for the next day in case he forgot to eat like a human being.

I prepped everything, cutting the potatoes into even cubes, tossing them with oil and herbs, laying everything in neat rows on the pan. I even cleaned as I went, because I was not about to trigger whatever compulsion lived inside him by leaving flour footprints on his immaculate floor.

The house slowly filled with the smell of roasting garlic and paprika. The vacuum lines stayed intact.