Chương 8
“Why?”
“I thought you might want it.”
“I do.”
“I figured.”
Claire ran a thumb across the fabric.
“How’s your wrist?”
“Annoying.”
“Your hip?”
“Purple.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes.”
Claire smiled faintly.
“You really make me work for it.”
“For what?”
“Any sign you don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
Claire stopped.
Margaret continued.
“I’m angry with you. Those are different things.”
Claire swallowed.
“Ethan says you’re seeing someone.”
“A therapist.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“For a second I thought he told you I was dating.”
“You’re still married.”
“I am aware.”
Margaret laughed.
“Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”
Claire looked at the linen cloth.
“I miss him.”
“I know.”
“Does he miss me?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Then why ask?”
“Hope.”
“That’ll get you in trouble.”
They talked for twenty minutes.
Mostly about Margaret’s dishwasher.
It had broken again.
A month passed.
Then two.
Claire returned to work gradually.
One client refused to work with her.
Another did not care.
Most people were less interested in her scandal than she had imagined.
The internet moved on.
Real life did not.
She noticed things she had not noticed before.
The way Rachel’s shoulders tightened when Claire interrupted her.
The way junior employees apologized before disagreeing.
The way Claire’s first instinct, when a restaurant reservation disappeared from an app, was to demand a manager.
She began catching herself.
Sometimes too late.
Once, after snapping at an associate named Devin over a presentation error, she walked back into the conference room five minutes later.
“Devin.”
He looked terrified.
“I was rude.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“It wasn’t.”
He stared at her.
Claire almost explained that she was under pressure.
Instead she said, “The mistake still needs fixing. But I didn’t need to talk to you like that.”
Devin nodded.
“Okay.”
It was awkward.
No one applauded.
No moral lesson descended from the ceiling.
They fixed the slide deck and went home late.
Claire considered that progress.
Ethan noticed changes too.
He did not trust them immediately.
That mattered.
They met for dinner every Sunday.
At first they discussed practical things: rent, insurance, wedding refunds, the joint credit card, whether to file taxes together.
Later they talked about other things.
His work.
Her therapy.
Margaret’s dishwasher.
Never the future.
Then one Sunday in April, Ethan put his ring on the table between them.
Claire stared at it.
He had carried it for months.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to wear it,” he said.
“Okay.”
“I don’t know if we’re staying married.”
“Okay.”
He looked irritated.
“You can say more than okay.”
“I’m trying not to control the answer.”
“That’s extremely annoying.”
Claire smiled.
“I know.”
He pushed the ring toward the middle of the table.
“I want us to go to counseling together.”
Claire’s eyes filled.
She blinked hard.
“Okay.”
Ethan laughed.
She did too.
Then she said, “Yes.”
Marriage counseling was worse than individual therapy because Ethan was there to correct her version of events.
Claire hated that.
Ethan hated discovering how often he avoided conflict until resentment replaced conversation.
They fought in the therapist’s office.
They fought afterward.
Once Ethan walked three blocks in the wrong direction because he was too angry to admit he had forgotten where they parked.
Claire followed him.
“You know the car’s the other way.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we walking this way?”
“I need a minute.”
“Oh.”
They walked another block.
Claire said, “This is stupid.”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying okay.”
She laughed.
He laughed too.
Then they stood outside a pharmacy in light rain, both exhausted by the absurd difficulty of remaining married.
In May, Margaret visited Chicago.
This time she arrived as Ethan’s mother.
Claire met her at the airport.
No disguises.
No tests.
Margaret walked out of baggage claim wearing white sneakers and carrying a suitcase with one broken wheel.
Claire hugged her carefully.
Margaret allowed it.
“You can squeeze harder than that.”
“I’m not risking it.”
“My hip healed.”
“I know.”
“I’m not porcelain.”
“I know.”
“You sound like Ethan.”
“Occupational hazard.”
They drove to the apartment.
Ethan had moved back three weeks earlier.
Not completely.
Two boxes remained at Matt’s place.
His ring remained in a drawer.
Margaret did not ask about it.
That evening Claire cooked.
She was not good at cooking.
She burned garlic.
Margaret opened the windows.
Ethan complained about the smoke alarm.
Nobody discussed the wedding until dessert.
Then Margaret said, “I need to tell you something.”
Claire put down her spoon.
Ethan groaned.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Every time you say that, my life gets worse.”
“This isn’t dramatic.”
“That’s what dramatic people say.”
Margaret ignored him.
“I spoke to the lodge.”
Claire stiffened.
“Why?”
“I’m going back.”
“When?”
“September.”
“For what?”
Margaret looked embarrassed.
“A wedding.”
Ethan stared.
“You got another catering job?”
“No.”
She looked offended.
“I’m attending.”
“Whose?”
“The lodge manager’s daughter.”
Claire blinked.
“Melissa?”
“No. The manager. The older man.”
“Robert?”
“Yes.”
“You’re friends with Robert?”
“We talk.”
Ethan looked between them.
“How?”
“Telephone.”
“I understand the technology, Mom.”
Margaret smiled.
“He called after the accident to check on me. We kept talking.”
Claire stared.
“Are you dating the lodge manager?”
Margaret became pink.
Ethan stood.
“No.”
“What?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
Margaret laughed so hard she had to put down her water.
Claire joined her.
Ethan looked betrayed.
“My father has been dead less than two years.”
Margaret’s laughter stopped.
The room changed.
Ethan immediately regretted it.
“Mom.”
She folded her napkin.
“I know exactly how long your father has been dead.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
Claire looked at Ethan.
He looked down.
Margaret stood.
“I’m tired.”
“Mom.”
“Good night.”
She walked toward the guest room.
Ethan started after her.
Claire caught his wrist.
He looked at her.
“Give her a minute.”
He pulled away.
“You don’t get to tell me how to talk to my mother.”
Claire’s hand dropped.
He heard himself.
They stood very still.
Then Ethan closed his eyes.
May you like
“Wow.”
Claire said nothing.
