“Yes,” I said. “He’s worth it.”
Olivia studied me for a moment, then took another drink of water.
Silence stretched. Not empty. Crowded.
She set the glass down carefully. “You said we needed to talk.”
There it was.
I had planned versions of this. On the drive home. In my office. While Tiny slept on my feet. None of them survived her saying it first.
“Yes.”
Her expression sharpened in a way I recognized from years of watching her work. Olivia had built a career on reading rooms full of men who underestimated her. She didn’t miss much when she chose to pay attention.
“Okay.” She folded her hands together on the counter. “Is this about the job? Are you overwhelmed? Because if you need me home more for a stretch, I can look at my calendar. Not forever, but I can move some things.”
My chest hurt.
“No.”
“Your knee?”
“No.”
“Your family?”
“No.”
She nodded once, absorbing each closed door. Then her face changed again. Quieter. The professional armor fell back, and my wife looked at me.
“It’s us,” she said.
I didn’t make her ask twice.
“Yes.”
Tiny dropped the duck at my feet. Neither of us looked down.
Olivia’s fingers tightened together, then relaxed deliberately. “All right.”
“I’m unhappy,” I said.
The words sounded too simple for the damage they carried.
She breathed in through her nose. “For how long?”
“Longer than I admitted.”
“To me or to yourself?”
“Both.”
That made her look away.
I stepped closer, then stopped because I didn’t know if comfort from me would be selfish.
“I should have said something before now,” I said. “I should have pushed harder when we started passing each other instead of living together. I let quiet turn into easier. I let busy do the work for me.”
