Saturday. 7:18 p.m.
I was on the balcony. Phone to my ear. Night air was cold.
"You're kidding," I said. "She actually mailed you socks?"
Elias laughed on the other end. "Certified mail. With a note. Pick these up. – A. Passive aggressive and in love. That's Cambridge for you."
I smiled. "Tell her I said hi. And that you're still an animal."
"Will do. Hey, I'll send you that clause rewrite by morning. Don't wait up."
"Okay. Night, Rowe."
I hung up.
"Rowe."
I jumped. Alexandra was in the doorway. No shoes. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He'd been there. Long enough to hear.
"Dinner's ready," he said. His voice was flat. Empty.
"Oh. Yeah. Coming."
He didn't move. He just looked at me. Then at my phone. Then back to me. "Rowe."
"It was Elias," I said. "Work thing. He's sending—"
"I'm hungry." He turned. Walked inside.
---
Dinner. 7:34 p.m.
Salmon. Asparagus. Quiet.
He ate. I ate. Maria had left it plated and gone home. It was just us. The quiet was different tonight. Not comfortable. Not silence. Something else.
"How was your day?" I tried.
He cut his salmon. Didn't look up. "Fine."
"Mine was—"
"I'm not hungry for conversation, Katrina."
I put my fork down. "Okay."
He kept eating. Chewing. Swallowing. Like I wasn't there. Like the chair across from him was empty.
"Alexandra, did I—"
"Pass the salt."
I passed it. He didn't say thank you.
He was angry. I could feel it. In the way he held his knife. In the way he didn't look at me. In the way the air between us felt like glass.
Jealous. The word came from nowhere. From Elias. From hypothetically, you get mad when someone else makes them laugh and you don't know why.
Was he jealous? Of Elias? Of a phone call? Of Rowe?
I didn't ask. I didn't dare. I finished my food. Said "goodnight." Went to my room.
He didn't say it back.
I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling. Maybe I did something wrong. Maybe talking to Elias at night was the line. Maybe he thought—
I didn't know what he thought. That was the problem.
---
Sunday. 10:03 a.m.
The relationship had changed. I felt it when I walked into the kitchen. He was already gone. No note. No coffee left for me. The house was the same. He wasn't.
I didn't go to the office. I didn't call Elias. I put on black. Not because of him. Because of her.
Rosehill Cemetery. 11:20 a.m.
Her grave was simple. Gray stone. Eleanor Rhodes. 1971 – 2024. Beloved.
It wasn't true. Not all of it. But it was carved now. Set. You don't edit stone.
I didn't bring flowers. She hated cut flowers. "They're already dead," she used to say. "Why watch them die?"
I sat on the grass. Crossed my legs. Looked at the name. Not the dates. Never the dates.
"Hi, Mom," I said. Out loud. Because the wind didn't count. "It's me."
The wind moved. That was all.
"I think I messed up," I told the stone. "I don't know how. I was just talking. To a friend. And now he's mad at me. And I don't know why that makes me sad. He's not supposed to be able to make me sad."
I picked at the grass. "You'd tell me to stop. You'd say men are like contracts. Read the fine print. Don't sign unless you're sure. I didn't sign this one, Mom. It was signed for me. And now I'm reading it and I don't understand the words."
I closed my eyes. "I miss you. That's all. I just miss you."
I sat there for twenty minutes. Didn't cry. Didn't need to. Sad doesn't always need tears.
When I stood up, my knees were damp. My chest was heavier.
I left. She didn't answer. She never did.
But I felt better. Or less worse. Same thing.
I got home at 12:47. His car was in the garage. He was home.
The house was still quiet. But it wasn't my quiet anymore. It was his.