“I don’t know if I can keep doing this to myself every month. Maybe I don’t test. Maybe we just—”
“Wait until you get fat?”
“Mason!” She belts a laugh.
“You know what I mean.”
“That or maybe I’ll get sick, I don’t know.”
“Whatever you need,” I say. “If that’s what feels right, we’ll do that.”
We stand there for another minute before I kiss her forehead. “God’s still good. He’s got us,” I remind her.
* * *
Work was slow today, slower than usual, which, honestly, wasfine. I texted Megan more than I normally do, just checking in here and there. She seemed good. Normal. Light. And I held onto that the rest of the afternoon.
I get home before her, like I figured I would. She had a handful of parent–teacher conferences. So I start dinner like we planned—pork chops in the pan, heat low, butter and oil simmering beneath them.
The front door opens and closes and she walks in looking…worn out. Shoulders slumped, eyes tired, the kind of tired you don’t fix with sleep.
“Hey,” I call over my shoulder. “Hungry?”
“Yeah,” she mutters, kicking off her shoes. The sound of them hitting the mat feels heavier than usual.
I glance back at her. “You okay?”
She steps into the kitchen, setting her bag on the counter with a little huff. “Someone passed me when I turned at Green Mill Road. I was doing fifty and they passed me.”
I let out a small laugh. “Yeah? Must’ve had places to be.”
She doesn’t laugh with me. “I just…I don’t get it. They don’t know who I am, or what I’m dealing with. It’s rude.”
“You could say the same thing about them,” I offer gently, but she doesn’t respond.
I step away from the stove, actually taking her in this time. The way her eyes are dim, the way her jaw trembles like she’s trying not to cry over something that isn’t really a big deal.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Don’t let it get to you.”
“But I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” she says, voice thinning out. “I was driving the speed limit. Actually, I was goingoverthe speed limit, and—”
“Sweetheart.” I keep my tone kind, a soft line through the chaos of her thoughts. She looks at me, eyes still dim and frustrated. “They’re not worth your time,” I say.
She sighs, turning toward the sink. “I know, but it just bugs me.”
I go back to the stove, lower the heat, toss another chunk of butter in the pan before covering it. The smell fills the kitchen. My thoughts start to race that Megan’s overly sensitive right now. I’m scared to make it worse by saying anything else regarding the situation, so I go for the classic change of subject.
“You want rice with this or pasta?” I ask.
“Neither.” She opens the fridge. “I’ll just have a salad.”
“Oh. Okay.” I watch her pull out the lettuce, the salad dressing. Suddenly the act of changing the subject seems to not be helping, maybe even making it worse.
I walk over to her at the island and rub my palm across the small of her back, slow yet firm. “I love you,” I murmur, praying it gives her something to lean into.
A small smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. “Love you too.” She looks up at me then. “I’ll be in a better mood tomorrow. Promise.”
“It’s all good.” I kiss her cheek before heading back to the pork chops, giving her space but staying close enough that she knows I’m still here if she wants to talk about it.
