“What was that?” I asked sleepily, making the question sound more innocent than it really was.
“What was what?” He set the laptop on his nightstand and reached for his water.
“That picture. I saw one when I looked over.”
“Picture? I was drafting a proposal for work.”
I thought I saw her. Her unnerving eyes looking at me for a split second. As if to taunt me from his screen.
Or maybe I had imagined it. There was no picture and some sick, tortured part of me wished there had been.
“Really?”
“Really.”
He turned to his side.
“Well, can I see it, then?”
“What? Jesus, Isla. I’m tired. Can we please go to bed now?”
Maybe I was being irrational. Maybe he was really tired. But why couldn’t he show it to me, appease the pestering wife? Isn’t that what husbands were supposed to do?
I went to bed that night picturing what it would look like if I were to see them with each other. Whether he would be better with her, her legs so lean and back arched perfectly. A body that he wasn’t so familiar with. Whether she would feel better, and how I would feel when I saw them together.
The weeks after were our usual routine of coffee, work, dinner, sleep, alarm, and repeat. We bustled around each other but not with each other. His kisses were short and to the point. I would try to get him to linger, but he was already someplace else. I didn’t have to look at his face to know he wasn’t fully there.
“Are they really slamming you with projects?” I asked over dinner one night.
“Why do you ask?”
I took a bite of the curried chicken I’d made. “You seem kind of tired. Quiet.”
“I’ve been working seventy-hour weeks. I’m always tired.”
He ate on autopilot and then put his plate by the sink.
“Sorry, I’m on a deadline. Client wants another draft of blueprints.” He said this looking down at his phone, scrolling, typing, and went to the study.
He didn’t mean to be cold, I told myself as I cleared my own plate and began to load the dishwasher. He’s stressed, just let it be.
A few days later, he was packing his carry-on for work. I took note of the nice shirts he was placing inside it, the ones he usually saved for special occasions.
“Where to this time?” I asked, lightly running my hand over the collar of one.
“LA. Another architecture firm wants to work jointly on one of our national clients. They’re sending me,” he answered, without looking up, as he tucked in more clothes.
“Do you know when you’ll be back?”
I pressed my mouth closed and shook my head before asking more questions.
“Hey . . . are you okay?” He closed his carry-on.
“Yes. Fine. I’m just going to miss you.”
“I’ll be back in two days,” he said softly before placing his hand on mine. “It’s a short trip. Maybe we can do a weekend getaway when I get back? An extended weekend?”
“Sounds great.” I kissed his cheek as if putting a button on the whole matter.
I kept busy at the gallery the next day, staying late. But I hurried home the following afternoon knowing he would be coming from the airport soon.
I checked the roast in the oven and then went to the counter to stir the butter into the steaming potatoes I had strained. My fingers lingered too close to the steam, and I jumped back.
“Dammit.” I flung open the freezer and held some ice cubes on my hand.
My phone rang and I answered, thinking it was him.
“You landed already? I haven’t finished making dinner yet—”
“Isla. It’s me. Oliver.”
I tucked the phone against my ear and shoulder, rubbing the ice on my fingers. “Oh, Oliver! Sorry, for some reason I thought you were Sawyer.”
My laugh wasn’t matched.
“I take it by the sound of your voice you haven’t heard,” he said quietly.
I let the ice slide into the sink. “Heard what?”
