“I rescheduled it for this afternoon.”
Her eyes narrow. “You pushed back a meeting.”
“I wanted breakfast with my wife. Is that a crime?”
She closes the textbook and pulls the highlighter from between her teeth. “Are you telling me that you are rearranging your life around me?”
“I’m rearranging my morning. There’s a difference.” I reach across and steal the highlighter. “And I’ll rearrange whatever I want. That’s one of the benefits of being in charge.”
She reaches for it, but I hold it out of range. She gives me the look she’s developed over these last six months—a mix of exasperation and fondness, a combination I’ve become addicted to—and I hand it back.
“Eat something,” I tell her.
She opens her mouth, closes it, because she knows I’m right. She pulls a banana from the fruit bowl I started keeping stocked specifically because I’ve learned she’ll eat fruit without thinking about it.
“How was your session yesterday?” I ask, referring to the intensive counseling she’s been undergoing in an attempt to deal with the events of her childhood.
“Good. Dr. Reyes wants me to keep working on the boundary-setting exercises. I told her I said no to something this week.”
“What did you say no to?”
“Kathleen called and asked if I wanted to come for tea on Thursday. I told her I couldn’t because I had a study group.” She pauses. “And then I didn’t apologize or feel guilty for having to decline.”
“That’s significant.”
“It felt enormous.” Shelooks up. “Your ma said she understood and hoped we could get together another time, and that was it.”
“She’s trying.”
“She is.” Nora turns this over.
My phone buzzes on the counter. It’s Finn. I silence it. He’ll call back if it’s urgent.
“Take it if you need to,” Nora says.
“I’m busy.”
“Cillian—”
“Nora. I’m having breakfast with my wife.”
She holds my gaze for a moment, then nods. Something in her settles—the way it does when she believes me instead of waiting for the catch. Three months ago, that settling took longer. Now it happens faster.
It’s after we share a leisurely breakfast and I’m in my office preparing for a business call when I hear it—a sharp cry from my wife.
Not an ordinary cry. I hear no sorrow or pain in it.
In a split second, I’m rounding the desk and running down the hall.
“Nora.”
No answer.
“Nora,” I try again.
Nothing.
I push the door open.
