I understand fear. I remember my first combat mission, that same paralyzing terror when you realize everything's about to change, and you have no control over what happens next. The difference is, I had training for combat. Nobody trains you for this.
The shower turns off. I shove the receipt back in her purse and head to the living room, grabbing my laptop like I've been working this whole time.
When Emma emerges ten minutes later, her hair is still damp and she's wearing one of my old Navy t-shirts and yoga pants. Her eyes are red. She's been crying.
"Hey." I look up from my laptop. "Feel okay?"
"Fine." She doesn't meet my eyes as she heads to the kitchen. "You're up late."
"Wine review meeting in thirty minutes. You blocked me in again."
"Sorry." She grabs her keys from her purse—the purse I was just rifling through—and holds them out. "I'll move it."
"I can do it. You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"Emma—"
"I said I'm fine." Her voice has that edge that means stop pushing. So, I stop.
She makes coffee—decaf, I notice, though she doesn't comment on it—and takes her mug to the living room, curling up on the couch with her laptop. Working. Again. Always working.
I grab her keys and head outside. Emma's car is unlocked. I slide into the driver's seat and reach for the gear shift when something catches my eye.
A pickle jar in the cupholder. Empty.
Another pickle jar in the center console. Also, empty.
I lean over to check the passenger seat. Two more jars, both empty, rolling around on the floor mat.
The backseat has three more. One empty, two still half-full.
I sit there, staring at the pickle collection like it's evidence at a crime scene.
Six pickle jars. SIX. Emma has a pickle stockpile in her car.
I've seen supply caches in war zones that were less well-stocked.
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. Then another. Soon I'm sitting in my wife's car surrounded by pickle jars, laughinglike a maniac because this is the most Emma thing I've ever seen. When Emma commits to something, she commits completely. Apparently, that includes pickle consumption.
I pull out my phone and take a picture of the backseat pickle jar collection. Then I move her car, park it properly in the driveway, and head back inside still grinning.
Emma's exactly where I left her, typing furiously on her laptop. Her coffee sits untouched beside her.
"Your car is moved," I say, settling back on my chair.
"Thanks."
"Also, you might want to know there are approximately six pickle jars in there."
Her fingers freeze on the keyboard. "I'm aware."
"Six, Emma."
"I like pickles."
"You've mentioned that." I lean back, watching her. "But six jars seems excessive."
