"What did we learn?"
"That woman's intuition is spot-fucking-on," I say, sucking the blood from my thumb.
"Smart-ass," she mumbles, shaking her head and walking away. Dad snickers and brushes the glass in the pan.
"That woman..." he hums with a loving smile on his face.
I look at it for a long moment, wondering if that's what I look like when talking about Wendy, if that's what I'm going to look like in twenty years talking about Wendy.
When we're making dinner at our house, both kids come over with their partners, if they have them. I smile, thinking of Liam walking into the house with a particular blonde under his arm.
Then my mind shifts to Wendy, my beautiful wife—still beautiful years later, with new lines on her face and some gray in her hair—and I'm filled with contentment picturing her at my side, smiling at me as she cooks dinner.
I see myself grabbing her around the waist, pulling her into my arms to sway to music only we can hear, and the happiness of the vision makes me pause.
I think of the future, and I smile. I want to get there, but I also want to remain in this moment for as long as I can. My kids are giggling outside, my dad and my mom are still young, and I’m waiting for my Wendy to come home.
Twenty minutes later, the wine is mopped, and the glass is cleared from the floor.
But Wendy still isn't here.
I talk myself through it, my anxiety rising with every tick of the clock.
Maybe she got caught up talking to her coworkers. Maybe it's busy. Maybe there's traffic. Maybe there's an accident and a road is closed.
As coached by Dr. Wilson, I try to focus on the logical reasons first. Even so, a cold fear begins to settle in my stomach, and the rational explanations are unable to hush it.
When the doorbell rings, there's an odd sense of relief and dread.
It's got to be Wendy. It has to be.
But why is she using the doorbell? She would just walk in.
I'm frozen in my spot on the living room couch, chest tight with anticipation and dread. Liam and Noah sit across from me—Noah sketching, Liam lost in his phone, a soft smile on his face as he texts.
My mom is calmly finishing dinner, and I hear my dad's booted steps clomping to the door, each sound hammering my anxiety.
I can't move. I can't breathe.
I place a hand over my chest as my dad opens the door and talks to whoever is there for a few moments, and then he appears in the doorway.
"Atlas..."
Numb, I stand from my spot and walk to the door, feeling like I'm walking to my execution.
It's a miracle I stay on my feet when I see Sheriff Grady at the door. The Sheriff and my dad went to school together, so they speak in hushed tones, his face sympathetic, while my dad's is stricken.
And I justknow.
The Sheriff sees me and tries to smooth his face, "Hey, Atlas—"
"Is she dead?" I ask, the fear in my voice sharp, not bothering to return the greeting. He and my dad share a look, and I snarl,my patience fraying with panic."Is she dead?"
"Wendy’s being transported to the hospital," he tells me, and it's like a kick to the throat. I inhale sharply and place a hand over the stabbing pain in my chest.
"She was in a car accident. A driver ran a red light, t-boned her. I got to the scene as they were loading her into the ambulance. She should be there now, I can—"
Wendy. Car accident. T-bone.
