I shrug. “We don’t need to talk to sleep.”
Another small nod.
“I am sorry,” she whispers.
I don’t answer.
I walk over to where my phone is charging and pick it up. “I’ll text Dad.”
Jess
I give Logan what he wants.
For the next few days, we exist in the same house like two planets forced into the same orbit, close enough to feel the gravity, careful not to collide.
We talk, technically.
About feeding the dogs. About what the kids need, what time to start dinner.
Mundane things. Necessary things.
What we don’t talk about is the one thing taking up all the space in the room.
The elephant in our marriage.
Every minute I’m on pins and needles, waiting. Watching him. Wondering if he’s coordinating with a lawyer. If he’s making plans, figuring out the best timeline to serve me divorce papers.
The snow came down hard Monday morning, just like the forecasts promised.
It’s Wednesday now.
We’ve been cooped up in this house together since Sunday.
Trapped.
The kids, of course, think it’s the best week of their lives. No school, no schedules, just endless hours at home with both parents. They run around the house like it’s some magical winter vacation instead of a pressure cooker.
They’ve dressed Bell and Ty in their old sweaters. Built pillow forts in the living room. Invented ridiculous games that only make sense to them.
Right now, they’re arguing over which movie to watch while Logan sits on the couch pretending to referee.
He looks relaxed. Calm. Like this is just another normal Wednesday.
It isn’t.
Not for me.
He had some mystery meeting this morning. Told me he’d be unavailable for an hour and then locked himself in our bedroom.
I know it wasn’t a business call because I already called Mackie to ask.
Just thinking about it makes my leg start to twitch.
I press my hand down hard on my knee to stop it.
It doesn’t help.
If anything, it gets worse.
