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She jumps. “You scared me!”
“Sorry.”
After slipping off her cream wool coat, revealing her pink jogging suit, she folds it over the back of the white sage upholstered dining room chair. Rays of morning sun cut through the snow-flocked trees, searching for places to rest, like the empty Knotty Alder hardwood table and the matte black built-in buffet filled with dishes we never use.
Things …
This thirteen-million-dollar home is filled with so many things that don’t mean a thing.
“Why are you still home?” She sits beside me.
I stare at the half-filled glass of water in front of me, the one I used to take down a few pain pills minutes earlier.
“I didn’t want to worry you.” I reach for her hand. “And I still don’t. But last week, I wasn’t feeling well…” I laugh. “Let me rephrase, I was feeling fucking awful.”
Her brow furrows as she squeezes my hand.
“So I went to the ER?—”
“Price—”
“No. Please, let me finish. It was on our anniversary, and I didn’t want to ruin it, so I got checked out. They gave me something for the pain. And I’ve been waiting to hear back on the test results. They’re in now. I have an appointment this afternoon. I don’t know what they’re going to say. Perhaps nothing. Maybe it’s a virus. Or something related to stress. But I want you to come with me.”
She nods over and over. “Of course. It’s fine. You’re fine.” But the look on her face conveys anything but fine.
I try a little harder, finding something more believable when I smile. “I know. It’s ridiculous that they can’t just tell me over the phone. We’ll pick up Astrid after the appointment and go out to dinner to celebrate it being something very minor.”
Amelia’s eyes fill with tears, but she continues to nod.
Just as I start to speak, my phone rings. “It’s Megan.” I hold it up for her to see before heading toward my study.
“Sorry to bother you.”
“It’s fine. What’s up?”
“Malcolm Herring wasn’t happy about rescheduling his appointment with you. He flew in last night from LA. He said he’s taking his business somewhere else. I wasn’t going to call you, but Alex said to?—”
“No. It’s fine.” I rub my temples, collapsing into my desk chair. “I’ll deal with him.”
“What do you want me to tell Alex?”
“Nothing. I’ll deal with him too.”
“Okay. I hope you feel better.”
Me too.
“Thanks, Megan.”
I toss my phone on the desk. This room has no window, just floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with books I have never read. The wood is too dark, and the paint is a godawful shade of dark green. This is my least favorite room in our home, but I can’t bring myself to leave it because the woman I love is on the other side of that door. And the look in her eyes is the same look she had when we put her cat down a year after we married.
So I do what any mortal man in my shoes would do: I hide in here until it’s time to go to my appointment. The fact that Amelia never comes in here to check on me says a lot.
She’s just as fucking terrified as I am.
On the wayto the appointment, my wife keeps a tight grip on my hand, only letting go long enough to get out of the car when we arrive at the doctor’s office in the hospital's north wing.
By the time we're seated in his office, Amelia has picked off every last speck of her red nail polish. She balls her hands into fists and gives me a sad, guilty smile when I glance at them.
