“Not really. I mean, it wasn’t perfect, and you could tell we were all dealing with stuff, but we didn’t fight.”
She hums, twisting her mouth, not satisfied with this answer. “Is he at home today?”
“Not…exactly.” I scrape my teeth over my lip and stare too hard at my computer. I feel her eyes bore into me, waiting for more information, but she doesn’t ask. And she doesn’t have to, because I cave anyway. “I told him to stay there.”
“You didwhat?” she shrieks.
“I know,” I groan, dropping my head onto my desk, as if it could erase this terrible decision.
“You told your amnesiac husband to stay at his parents’ house? Four hours away?” Her voice leaps an octave. “Emma, why?”
“I don’t know, Eleanor!”
I fold over myself, hands over my head, sliding down until my cheek hits the desk. Cold shame burns my face, and the image of Steven as I pulled away crashes back into me. The way he tried to smile. The way it didn’t reach his eyes. Sadness was etched in the lines between his brows, set hard in his jaw. His heart was breaking. And I drove away from it.
“I thought he could spend time with his mom,” I mumble, cheek pressed to the mahogany. Then I groan. “Or maybe I’m just an idiot.”
“Or you’re scared,” she says knowingly. Gently.
I don’t answer. Because she’s right. I’m terrified. I’m terrified of going back to what we were. Or worse, becoming something I don’t recognize. Terrified that I’ll watch Steven relearn everything, learn how to be better, be stronger. All without remembering the dark parts we survived together. I’m terrified of being alone in the dark things, of wanting to run because no one will truly feel what I’m feeling.
When it’s clear I’m not going to say these thoughts out loud, Ellie asks, “Do you remember what you told me?”
“What?” I mumble into the desk.
“Don’t let the scary thoughts win. Things get messy, especially in a relationship.” Her voice softens, like she’s waiting for me to remember.I remember.“But that doesn’t mean it’s doomed, Em. Nothing good and worth having comes easy. Give this a chance. Give this good thing a real second chance.”
“Did I really say that?” I tease, still face-down.
Ellie growls and slaps her hands against the couch. “Yes, you did, Emma!”
I finally lift my head. Shame sits heavy in the back of my throat and behind my nose, even pooling warm beneath my eyes. Ellie clocks itinstantly, but her expression doesn’t soften the way I expect. Instead of a tender, comforting presence, she stands, puffing out her chest and flaring her nostrils.
“Get up,” she growls.
“What?” My eyes widen.
“Get. Up.”
I push to my feet warily, suddenly very scared. “What’s wrong?”
“Yell at me.”
A startled laugh slips out. “What?”
“Yell at me, Emma.” She smacks her palm against my desk, and the crack echoes. Her green eyes go feral, her back rounds—she looks like a cat coiled to strike. She drags in a breath and shouts, “Yell at me for stealing your sweater in fifth grade. Yell at me for forgetting your birthday two years ago. Yell at me for meddling in your life. Fight. With. Me.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” I try to sit down, but she steps closer. “I don’t want to fight with anyone.”
“That’s your problem.” She throws her arms up, frustration crackling off her. “You run. Every time. Your fight-or-flight system is clearly broken. It’s hardwired to one response, and you ignore the fight part completely. It’s time to change that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Fight for your life. Fight for your marriage. Fight foryourself,Emma. Stop running because it’s too messy or overwhelming. Make a little chaos of your own.”
“You know I can’t—”
“You used to smash art,” she cuts in. “Anytime you were upset, art was getting obliterated. Break some stuff. Let it out. Wake up your mama-bear dragon. Let her roar.”
