Page 6 of The Wright Man

Angelica

Now

I wasn't sure what time he'd gone to bed. Or if he'd gone to bed at all.

The guest room door had still been closed when I woke up, but the dent in the hallway carpet told me he'd passed through sometime between three and four. That's when the thermostat always clicked on. I was still lying awake when it did.

Couldn't even remember what the fight was about. Something stupid. Or maybe something serious dressed up in sarcasm and side-eyes. Hard to tell lately.

But I knew this: when the walls started closing in and the silence between us got loud, I baked.

So here I was, standing barefoot in my kitchen at eight-fifteen on a Sunday morning, flour dusted on my forearms, kneading biscuit dough like it had pissed me off rather than my husband.

The kitchen smelled like butter and salt and a little bit of desperation. The soft whirr of the oven preheating filled the space between me and my own thoughts.

These weren't just biscuits. These were apology biscuits.

Even if I didn't know what I was apologizing for anymore.

The dough was soft and warm beneath my fingers, giving just the right amount of resistance as I pressed into it again and again, folding, turning, pressing, folding again. It was rhythmic. Calming. Predictable. Something I could still get right with my eyes closed.

There was something healing about it—about turning five simple ingredients into something golden and soft and comforting. About the way they'd puff up in the oven, how they'd brown just slightly on the edges.

It was the same reason why I fell in love with braiding... Something about creating something good with my hands, even when everything else felt... not.

Once they were in the oven, I set the timer and turned to the skillet to start the sausage gravy—his favorite. Or at least it used to be.

It had been a while.

I browned the sausage first, letting it sizzle and pop in the cast iron while I scraped up the flavorful bits from the bottom. My favorite part of gravy. The messy, caramelized heart of it.

When the sausage was crumbled just right—crispy edges, no pink—I stirred in the flour, then the milk. Watched it thicken. Watched it become something.

I was pouring in the last splash of milk when I heard footsteps behind me.

I didn't turn. Just gave the gravy another stir.

I didn't have to look to know it was him. My husband's footsteps had a particular rhythm. Smooth. Self-assured. He walked like the world owed him rent.

He didn't say good morning or ask what I was cooking.

Didn't glance in my direction.

He just walked right past me, the same way he had for the last six months—like I was furniture. Or worse, wallpaper. Background.

The floor creaked under his weight as he moved toward the Keurig, the clink of his wedding band tapping his phone screen telling me exactly what had his attention.

Not me. Never me.

He stood there, scrolling, waiting for his coffee like it was the only thing worth waking up for. His back to me. His energy all the way off.

Still mad.

Of course he was.

That's what time we were on this morning.

I took a breath before speaking. One of those deep, grounding ones they teach you in yoga and therapy and every self-help podcast that swears it'll keep you from committing a felony.