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CHAPTER ONE
BAILEY
WALKING INTOour apartment, I’m not surprised to find it empty. Over the last year, it’s become the routine. Now, it’s not a question of whether Quinn will be home, it’s a question of whether he will be home before I go to bed. Opening the fridge, I stare at the contents, not really seeing anything. I’m tired of coming home to an empty apartment. I’m tired of cooking for one. I’m tired of having to pick something to watch by myself. I’m tired of falling asleep on my own.
Sometimes, I feel like a ghost in my own life, haunting the confines of these four walls.
I have tried to talk to Quinn about it, but when I see the stress lines around his mouth, I feel guilty. He’s worked hard to get where he is—sacrificed so much and complaining makes me feel ungrateful. But I miss him; I miss us. I miss how spontaneous and adventurous we used to be. I can’t remember the last time we packed a bag and just drove, the wind in our hair, singing along to our favorite music. We’d drive with no destination in mind, only stopping when we’d reach somewhere that grabbed our fancy. We’d find a B&B, motel, hotel, or anything available and cheap. All we cared about was being together. I know that people grow up and that life and responsibilities take over, but I can’t help but feel that, somehow, we’ve lost our way to being us.
Sighing, I grab my phone and pop him a quick text, hoping to at least get a response tonight.
Me: Are you eating at home tonight?
It takes about a minute before my phone chimes.
Quinn: Still at the office. Will order something.
That’s it. No,sorry, babe, I’m caught up at the office but will be home by ten. No nicknames, noI love you’s. When did that stop?
The thought makes me uncomfortable, so instead, I focus on my to-do list while heating some leftovers from last night. I didn’t hear from Quinn at all last night, so I cooked for two just in case he came home at a reasonable hour. By ten, I gave up the fight and put the leftover Alfredo away. I was so mad that my first instinct was to empty his plate into the trash, but now I’m glad I didn’t. At least now I don’t have to cook.
Grabbing the food and a glass of wine, I bypass our little dining table and settle in front of the TV. It feels sad to sit at a table by myself, so the couch it is. Flicking through the channels, I settle on an old rerun of The Office, hoping it will make me laugh at least. After dinner, I pour myself a bath, filling it with lavender-scented bubble bath. Relaxing back with a full glass of wine, I get lost in the pages of a new book.
It’s late by the time I’m done and getting ready for bed, and there’s still no sign of Quinn. Checking my phone, I scoff at the absence of messages. Stupid me, thinking he’d at least let me know when he’d be home. Annoyed, I call him, but it rings through and goes to voicemail.
I’m so annoyed that I can’t fall asleep—tossing and turning—all kinds of thoughts chasing each other round and round. Things can’t keep going the way they’ve been. More and more, I’ve been feeling as if we’re roommates sharing the same space at best or strangers passing each other like ships in the night. I know I need to talk to him; communication in a marriage is important, and we haven’t been doing a lot of that lately.
But I’m hesitant, and I don’t know why. I mean, I’ve known Quinn practically my whole life. We were neighbors, became best friends at seven, spent holidays together on his Grandfather’s blueberry farm, started dating at fifteen, and been married for eight years. If there’s anyone I can talk to, it’s Quinn.
Determination fills me. I’m going to get out of my comfort zone and start by forcing him to make time for us, then put my foot down and demand that we have a conversation. No job or money is worth hurting our relationship. Finally feeling confident, my mind manages to settle, and I fall asleep.
*****
“ARE YOU STILLgrumpy with me?” I take a deep breath of the fresh evening air as the door to McCullen’s closes behind me, cutting off the sounds of voices and music.
“No. This was a good idea,” Quinn says, chuckling. “I didn’t realize I needed this so much.”
I did. So, armed with my determination to force him to make time for us, I marched into his office, declaring that enough is enough, that I’ve made plans, and he’s taking the rest of the night off. He was annoyed and grumbled the whole way to the McCullen’s, but soon, he was laughing along with the crowd at the jokes of the comedians on stage. Little by little, the combination of alcohol and laughter released the tenseness that’s taken up permanent residence in his back and shoulders, relaxing them. I wanted to break out a bottle of champagne at his first belly laugh. It’s been so long since I’ve heard that, and I missed it.
Best idea ever.
He hooks his arm in mine, and we wander down the cobblestone street, taking in the displays in the shop fronts, not at all in a hurry to get home.
“We should do this once a month.”
“Yes.” His sigh is wistful as if doing something as simple as enjoying an evening out is comparable to an all-expenses paid holiday to some far-off exotic location. Something that might happen once in a lifetime.
He turns to me, and I sigh in satisfaction when he snakes his arms around my waist and pulls me closer to him. In a move I’ve done a thousand times before, I wind my arms around his neck, my fingertips playing with the short honey-brown hairs at the nape of his neck. His eyes are soft as they wander over my face, deep blue pools I’ve often found myself lost in. He presses a soft kiss to my lips before resting his forehead against mine with a deep sigh. So many sighs tonight.
Reaching out, I cup his cheeks and softly sweep my thumbs over the fine lines outlining the corners of his eyes. They weren’t there a year ago, and it’s a testament to the stress he’s under.
“You work too hard,” I murmur.
“Bailey…” He pulls his head back, his voice colored in censure and also a tiny hint of aggravation.
I’ve said these words to him in some variation many times this last year, and I don’t want to spoil this evening, but it’s so hard not to be concerned for him.
“Quinn, I know. I know. I understand why you’re working so hard. I really do, and I appreciate it. I truly appreciate you, Quinn. But I love you, and it’s because I love you so much that I’m worried about you. I want you to be happy, and I don’t know if this is truly making you happy. Is it? Are you happy?”
