In the living room, I flick on the television, but I can’t focus. The news warns of heavy snowfall heading for Oxfordshire, but Colt should be home long before that hits. Still, a tiny flicker of unease stirs.
I smooth down my lingerie and cross my legs, trying to settle. I feel nervous, like I’m waiting for a first date with anticipation fluttering in my stomach. I want tonight to matter. I want to make love to my husband. It’s been a while. Too long for us.
When Colt’s inside me, I don’t question his love—I feel it. And right now, I need that reassurance.
If it’s still there, I’ll hold onto it.
The news ends, and I glance at the clock. Five o’clock.He should be home by now.
Trying not to panic, I head to the kitchen and feed Princess, dragging out the task longer than necessary to stay occupied. She eats, stretches, and trots off like the loyal pup she is, completely content.
Lucky girl.
With nothing else to do, I wander into Colt’s music room. The air here feels different—sacred. I trail my fingers along his microphone stand and close my eyes, picturing him singingjust for me. I miss the way he used to hum while I fell asleep. That quiet rhythm was my lullaby, my comfort.
I’m teary again, so I leave before the memories unravel me.
Back in the kitchen, I check the oven. Dinner’s almost done, and it’s already close to six.
Is he still coming?
We argued this morning, but we made plans.
Surely he remembers that.
Surely he wants to be here.
I walk to the counter and grab my phone. My fingers hesitate before dialing. I’m not trying to hound him, I just want to make sure Colt’s okay, and still coming home.
The line rings. And rings. And rings.
Then it goes to voicemail.
I take a calming breath and wait for the beep. “Hey, babe… I’m really sorry about this morning. I hate that I upset you. Dinner’s nearly ready and… I’m hoping you’ve already left London. But if you haven’t, I’ll keep it warm for you. Just… call me, okay? Love you.” I end the call and set the phone down, tapping my heel lightly against the tiles. The sound echoesthrough the quiet kitchen, amplifying the silence in the worst way.
I don’t want to jump to conclusions. I really don’t. But my chest tightens all the same.
Is he ignoring me?
I sit at the dining table, wrapping my arms around myself despite the heating. I’m cold, but it’s not the temperature, it’s the distance I feel fromhim.
Fifteen minutes pass. No call. No message.
I stare at my phone. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But my hand moves on its own, dialing again.
This time, it goes straight to voicemail.
My heart sinks.
He turned it off.
There’s no other explanation.
He saw the call and chose not to answer.
I close my eyes, trying not to spiral, but the thoughts come anyway. Is he still at Macy’s? Is she comforting him the way I should be? Is he venting to her about me? Laughing at how emotional I’ve been? Letting her in further?
I press my fingers to my temples and inhale deeply, trying to slow the pounding in my chest. I force myself to stand, brushing invisible creases from my lingerie, fixing what doesn’t need fixing simply to keep my hands busy.
