“What’s she like?”
And what would I say?
She believes in astrology and crystal healing and thinks the universe arranged our meeting.
She defended me to my own sister.
She sees things in me that I don’t see in myself.
She’s chaos incarnate, and she’s driving me insane.
I turned off the water and dried off, going through my nighttime routine with the same precision I applied to everything else.
Brush teeth: two minutes, electric toothbrush, circular motions.
Floss: waxed, mint-flavored, between every tooth.
Moisturizer: SPF 30, even at night, because skin cancer doesn’t care about your schedule.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
Same face.
Same gray eyes.
Same everything.
Except for the ring.
And the wife.
And the complete destruction of my carefully ordered life.
How did this happen?
How did I, Julien Darcy, neurosurgeon, man of science and reason, end up married to a woman who thinks crystals have healing properties?
The answer, of course, was alcohol.
And Fitz.
And my own stupid decision to try to be spontaneous.
Never again,I thought.Never ever again.
I walked to my bedroom, my sanctuary within my sanctuary, and pulled back the covers.
Egyptian cotton sheets, 800 thread count, washed weekly.
Memory foam mattress, medium-firm, optimal for spinal alignment.
Blackout curtains, blocking out every photon of light pollution.
Perfect.
I climbed into bed and closed my eyes.
Silence.
