Fourth, what comes next will hurt—a lot.
Fifth, I will break for a while, and that's okay—because I know how to pull myself up and dust myself off. At least, I hope I do.
4
NOW THIS!
LUCY
Fox comes home at seven.
I hear the garage door, then his key, then the sound of him setting his bag down in the entry hall—a thud, brief, routine—next are his footsteps on the hardwood, and he appears, the way he always does, slightly loosening his tie, looking at whatever I’m cooking with the expression that is the closest thing to uncomplicated warmth I reliably get from him.
“Smells good.” He kisses me softly. He does this every time he sees me after a while, or when he leaves me for a while. I used to find it endearing. Now, I don’t know how to feel.
“Lamb ragu.”
“The good one?”
“Is there a bad one?”
The corners of his mouth lift up.
He goes to the wine and looks at the label. “Nice! It’ll go well with the lamb.”
He pours two glasses and brings one to me without asking. It’s an act of domestic fluency that I have loved about him, butam now cataloguing with the attention of a woman who is trying to figure out what is real and what is habit.
“Long day?” I ask—another habit.
“Long enough.” He leans against the counter and looks at me. “Thanks for the cassoulet.”
My throat is all but closed up. I don’t know how to do this, how to unravel this marriage that means so much to me with my own hands.
“You’re welcome.”
He frowns. “You’ve been busy. Cassoulet and now the lamb! When did you start cooking?” He knows this dish, like the cassoulet, is one of those long and slow burns.
“Early.”
“Did you go into Dina’s?”
“No. I took the day.”
He raises an eyebrow—he knows I don’t take days—but doesn’t push it, which is on brand for him. He asks questions up to a point and then retreats if I don’t volunteer more information. I used to read that as a sign of respect for my autonomy—now, I wonder if it’s disinterest.
We eat and talk like we always do.
He compliments my food. He’s good about such things. My husband notices my efforts and never makes me feel like I’m not appreciated.
He talks easily about his work—tells me about a musician who insisted their greenroom include a gold water bowl for their dog, because the dog had allergies.
Fox is quite the storyteller.
Well, he did tell me a story about how we were going to be married forever, and I bought it, hook, line, and sinker.
He’s pouring the second glass of wine when I say it. “You know why I made cassoulet today?”
Fox looks like I dropped a puzzle in his lap. He smiles cautiously. “Am I missing an important date, sweetheart?”
