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“Thanks,” he mumbled, pulling it on.
While he was buttoning it up, Molly lowered her eyes. She couldn’t look at him and not remember their recent night together. She recalled how she’d felt lying next to him, her ear pressed against his chest. The even, rhythmic beat of his heart had lulled her to sleep, lulled her into believing that there was hope for them, for their wounded marriage.
Molly was well aware of the mistakes she’d made. She regretted them and wanted to right the wrongs she’d done to Jordan, if that was possible. Molly was convinced their relationship would always be strained until Jordan had grieved for Jeffrey properly.
Molly waited until they were seated across the dining table from each other, their plates piled high with the food Jordan had brought.
Molly dipped her fork in the steaming mashed potatoes and gravy. “I’d like us to talk, Jordan. Really talk.”
“All right,” he agreed, but she heard the hesitation in his voice.
“I love you, and this…this awkwardness between us is hurting us both.”
Jordan set his fork on the plate. His eyes shone with tenderness. “I loveyou, Molly, so much. I can’t believe I allowed all this time to pass. I should’ve gone after you the day you moved out. My foolish pride wouldn’t let me.”
“I should never have left the way I did. Those days after we buried Jeffrey were so bleak. I wasn’t myself, and I didn’t know if I’d ever be again.
“I felt like I was walking around in a haze. I was insane with grief and couldn’t make myself snap out of it. You were right when you said all I did was cry.”
She waited a moment, then continued. “I realize now how depressed I was, but I didn’t know it then. I don’t think even my doctor did. He wanted me to see a counselor, but I couldn’t make myself go. That was a mistake.”
“I should have helped you.”
“You tried,” Molly whispered, fighting back tears. “But you couldn’t help me.” In retrospect, Molly believed she’d probably been close to a breakdown.
They made the pretense of eating, but neither appeared to have much of an appetite. They didn’t speakagain, each trapped in the memories of those painful months following Jeffrey’s death.
Molly finished her dinner first, dumping her leftovers in the compost bin beneath the sink. “Thank you, Jordan, you’re a fabulous cook,” she said in an effort to cut through the tension.
“Anytime.” He smiled, but his eyes were devoid of any real amusement. He stood and carried his plate to the sink, as well.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.
“Please.”
“Decaf okay?”
He nodded.
Her back was to him as she reached for the canister and scooped the grounds into the paper-lined receptacle. The coffee had dripped into the pot before she broached the subject of their son a second time.
“We need to talk about Jeffrey.”
Her words were followed by silence.
“Why?” he finally asked.
“I believe it’ll help us.” She turned to face Jordan.
He was standing not far from her. Two mugs sat on the kitchen counter where he’d placed them. His hands were clenched at his sides, the knuckles white.
Pretending they were having a normal, everyday conversation, she reached for the mugs and filled them. Jordan took a seat across from her at the table. She sipped her coffee, then slowly brought her gaze to his, waiting for him to respond.
Five minutes passed.
“We had the same problem before,” he said, soundingperfectly natural. “Jeffrey is dead—talking about him won’t bring him back.”
“That’s true,” she said evenly. Molly wasn’t fooled. Jordan’s back was ramrod straight, and he held the mug tightly between his hands. She knew the heat from the coffee must be burning his palms, but he seemed unaware of it. “No amount of discussion will resurrect our son,” she said, even as the pain sliced open her heart. It still hurt to talk about Jeffrey, especially with Jordan.
