I step outside into the October night.
The air smells like wet asphalt and cedar, the sky low and heavy with clouds that haven’t fully committed to a downpour yet.
Just a mist. Fine droplets catching in the security light above the door.
I lean against the brick wall of the clubhouse and swipe to answer.
“Hey, darlin’.”
“Hey yourself.” Her voice is warm through the speaker, slightly distracted.
I can hear the rhythm of the road underneath—tires on wet pavement, the hum of her little Honda. “I’m running late. Bex is going to kill me.”
“Bex will survive. Where are you?”
“About twenty minutes out. I got held up at school—Tommy threw up all over the reading rug again, the third time this month. That kid’s mother needs to stop sending him with Lunchables. His stomach can’t handle the processed cheese.”
I tip my head back against the wall and close my eyes.
This. This right here.
Her voice in my ear, telling me about some kid’s weak stomach, the rain misting across my face.
This is everything. I’ve been alive thirty-three years and I didn’t start breathing right until I met her.
“You sound tired,” she says.
“I’m not tired. Just won fifty bucks off Colt.”
“Poor Colt. You’re terrible to that man.”
“He keeps sitting down at my table. That’s on him.”
She laughs. Soft and easy, like wind chimes on a porch.
That’s what Rose sounds like—everything gentle, everything good, a sound that makes you want to sit still and let it wash over you.
“Drive safe,” I tell her. “Roads are slick.”
“I know how to drive in the rain, Lee.” I can hear her smiling.
That specific tone she gets when she’s rolling her eyes at me with love behind it.
Five years of marriage and I can map her expressions by sound alone.
“I know you do. Humor me.”
“Always.” A pause. The windshield wipers keep time. “I love you.”
“Love you too, Rosie. Tell Bex I said hey.”
“She’ll say something inappropriate. She always does.”
“That’s why we keep her around.”
Another laugh. Shorter this time.
Then a breath that shifts—catches—and the sound underneath changes.
