And then she was gone, off to spend the night doing one of the hardest parts of her job, and I was alone with my guilt and my secrets and the engagement ring still hidden in my sock drawer.
I’d called Kate and told her I was taking today off. She’d sounded surprised — I never took unscheduled days off — but she’d agreed to handle things at the bar. I needed to be here when Chloe got home. Needed to tell her everything before I lost my nerve or before circumstances conspired to delay it further.
Now it was almost noon, and I was on my third cup of coffee, my phone on the kitchen counter in front of me, waiting.
She’d texted two hours ago:Heading home. Should be there around 12. Need coffee, shower, and about 48 hours of sleep.
I’d typed and deleted three different responses before settling on:I’ll have coffee ready. Drive safely.
I looked around our kitchen — the coffee maker I’d bought because Chloe couldn’t function without caffeine, the herb garden on the windowsill that she tended religiously, the photo magnets on the fridge documenting our life together. Two years of memories. Eight months of living together.
All of it about to be tested by three days of lies.
I heard her truck pull into the driveway at 12:07. My heart started hammering against my ribs as the engine cut off. The front door opened, and Chloe appeared.
She looked exhausted. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. Her clothes were rumpled and stained. Her hair was falling out of its ponytail in messy chunks. She moved with the kind of bone-deep weariness that came from physical labor combined with emotional devastation.
“Hey,” she said quietly, dropping her bag by the door.
“Hey.” I crossed to her immediately, pulling her into my arms. She melted against me, and I felt her body shake with a suppressed sob. “I’m so sorry about yesterday.”
“Fifty-seven cows,” she whispered into my chest. “We had to euthanize fifty-seven cows. The farmer kept apologizing to them. To each one. He’d raised some of them from calves, and he…” Her voice broke. “It was awful, Sam. It was one of the worst things I’ve ever had to do.”
I held her tighter, feeling her grief radiating through her exhausted body. This woman spent her life saving animals, and yesterday she’d had to end dozens of them.
“You did what you had to do,” I said softly, stroking her hair. “You ended their suffering. That’s all you could do.”
She cried quietly against my chest for a few minutes, her shoulders shaking, while I just held her. Finally, she pulled back and wiped her eyes.
“Okay,” she said, taking a shaky breath. “Okay. Let’s focus on the positive. Let me tell you about the alpaca babies instead, because those were amazing and I need to think about something good right now.”
And just like that, her face transformed. Despite the exhaustion, despite the tears still wet on her cheeks, she smiled—that pure, uncomplicated joy she got when talking about successful deliveries. “There were five crias. Five! Mrs. Jenkins couldn’t believe it. Two sets of twins and a singleton, all healthy, all nursing perfectly. The twins were so tiny, and they were standing within an hour, just wobbling around on these impossibly long legs.” She was talking faster now, the words tumbling out. “And the mamas were so good with them. Buttercup was so patient with her twins, letting them both nurse, and the singleton — they named him Peanut because he’s the smallest — he’s already got the most personality. He was trying to jump around within two hours of being born.”
I watched her light up talking about the alpacas, watched the devastation from yesterday temporarily fade as she focused on the lives she’d helped bring into the world instead of the ones she’d had to end.
“That sounds amazing,” I said. “I’m glad you got to be part of that.”
“Me too.” She yawned suddenly, massively. “God, I’m so tired. I showered at Dr. Carrington’s this morning, but I really want a shower in my own bathroom, with my own shampoo, and to be wearing my own clean clothes.” She looked up at me. “Why are you home? It’s the middle of the day. You’re never home at this time.”
My stomach clenched. “I wanted to be here when you got home. And… I need to talk to you about something.”
Something in my tone must have registered because her expression shifted. “Is everything okay?”
“Go take your shower first,” I said gently. “We’ll talk after.”
She studied my face, then nodded slowly. “Okay. Give me twenty minutes.” She stood on her toes and kissed me quickly. “I’ll try not to fall asleep in the shower, but no promises.”
She headed upstairs, and I stood in the living room, listening to her footsteps overhead. The bathroom door closed. A moment later, I heard the shower turn on.
I paced. I couldn’t help it. I moved from the living room to the kitchen and back again, rehearsing what I’d say, how I’d explain, trying to find the words that would make this hurt less.
The shower shut off. I heard the bathroom door open, heard her moving around in our bedroom. The hair dryer turned on. It ran for maybe five minutes before clicking off.
More movement overhead. Drawers opening and closing. She was getting dressed.
I sat down on the couch, my hands clasped between my knees, waiting.
Chloe appeared wearing her favorite comfortable clothes — the soft gray sweatpants and my old college t-shirt that she’d claimed as her own months ago.
