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My father’s offer is on the tip of my tongue.
Hannah has joined a short list of people whose opinions I value. I’m not sure when or why orhowit happened, but she’s on there. I barely know her. But it feels like I knowenough, and for some reason I can’t make sense of, the brief amount of time I’ve spent around her has been enough to make me certain of that.
And I’d like to hear her perspective, what she thinks about the proposal. She already knows about Candace, even. She has some sense of why my relationship with my father is even messier than most people think.
But she’s also my wife.
And she’s also the woman who I had sex with last night. Who I woke up next to this morning.
Telling her that part of the urgency behind our divorce is so I’m free to potentially propose to someone else sounds like a terrible idea for different reasons than before.
I’m not worried she’ll drag the proceedings out to spite me, the way Scarlett suggested. I’m worried how she’ll react, period.
If she doesn’t care, it will sting.
If she does care, it will hurt.
So I keep my mouth shut, aside from finishing my breakfast.
“You done?” I ask Hannah, once my plate is clean.
She looks away from her laptop screen, where she’s been focused for the past few minutes. It must be something important. Or she’s avoiding talking to me, after how I shut the last topic down.
“Yeah.”
I grab her plate and pile it on top of mine, carrying both over to the sink and start to rinse them.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“If you want to, uh, do something, we can go…do something.”
I raise both eyebrows. “As heartfelt as that invitation sounded, I’m good staying here until the game. I have work to do too.” I never sent Scott’s email requesting the updated quarterly statements, and I’m sure lots of other questions have piled up in my inbox by now.
Hannah slides off her stool. “That doesn’t mean you have to do dishes. You’re a guest.”
“You cooked. And I’m your husband.”
Never, ever did I imagine I’d be saying those words standing in a tiny bungalow a few blocks from the beach. Life has a funny way of spiraling from one small decision.
“That doesn’t count as a reason. We’re not really married.”
“We’re not?” I squirt some soap on the sponge and start scrubbing the plates. “Been consummated and everything.”
“So…we’re discussing that?”
“Nothing to discuss. I’m just not pretending it didn’t happen.”
“It was a judgment lapse.”
“Probably,” I agree. I would have called it a mistake, but I don’t say that. And standing in the kitchen with her watching me wash dishes, I’m not so sure it’s an accurate descriptor. Because mistakes are choices you’d go back and change, and I definitely don’t feel that way about last night.
“Are you sure you don’t mind if I work?”
“I’m sure.” I finish the dishes and dry my hands, Hannah watching me the whole time.
“The last guy who saw me do work on a Sunday told me my dad wouldn’t fire me.”
