“I wanted a full night out,” I say. “One where you didn’t get a call saying come home because Devon was anxious.”
“She couldn’t breathe, Julie.”
“Crazy that her anxiety is always at its worst when you’re doing something with me. Even if it's as simple as us going to the grocery store together, she calls. Every time we try to do even the smallest thing, we're interrupted. It's becoming a pattern and it's not okay with me.”
The words hang there between us, blunt, plain, and fucking unapologetic. He shifts beside me. I can feel him deciding whether to deny it or insult me for saying it out loud. Finally he says, “That’s not fair.”
“No?”
“No.” His voice sharpens. “And you don’t get to make her problems into some bullshit competition you’ve created in your mind.”
Lovely. He’s insulting me to defend her. This tone-deaf idiot is not the man I promised to love for the rest of my life. I want to scream. Instead, I turn toward him in the dark. “You’re the one doing all of this. Not me. If you want me to compete with a child, we’re already done. And in that case, my divorce question has just answered itself.”
He goes still. For a moment, I think he might snap and say something real. Instead he lies back down and stares at the ceiling. “Whatever. We can talk about this tomorrow.”
“You always say we’ll talk about it tomorrow, and then we never do. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
He moves closer. His hand touches my shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says.
I jerk away from his touch and let out a long breath. I'm so tired of this bullshit. My whole body feels heavy with exhaustion and I want this to stop. I can’t keep chasing my own tail. "Okay.”
"I'll make it up to you. I promise."
Another promise. He doles them out like candy and never follows through. I know this one will be no different. “Okay.”
I roll over, turning away from him.
"Goodnight. I love you," he says quietly.
I close my eyes. “Okay.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
JULIE
Asher has been planningthis trip for three weeks, ever since I told him I wouldn’t compete. The following day, he declared that we needed a long weekend away. He planned for us to be away from Thursday to Monday, and made the reservation at Eagle Harbor Inn himself. He even coordinated with Ryan to stay at the house in case Devon needed anything. When he told me all of that, I felt something I haven't felt in a long time. Surprise. Maybe he does care. Maybe I’m writing us off too soon.
"Just the two of us," he says. "No distractions. No interruptions."
I want to believe him. I want to believe that the man I married and who I celebrated a magical anniversary with less than a year ago is still there. But it feels like the ground beneath us has shifted and pulled apart in a way that can’t be repaired.
Ryan shows up just before four on Thursday with an overnight bag and a reassuring smile. He hugs me in the driveway and tells me to have a good time. Devon is upstairs in her room. She came down when Ryan arrived, said hello, thendisappeared again without comment. I see the blinds in her room snap shut as we pull out of the driveway.
The drive to Bainbridge takes just over an hour. Asher drives. I sit in the passenger seat and watch the landscape change as we leave the city behind. We don't talk much. It feels like we're both holding our breath, waiting to see if this will work.
Eagle Harbor Inn is small and charming. The kind of place that feels intentionally cozy rather than trying too hard. Our room is on the second floor with a view of the water. There's a king bed with a white duvet, a small sitting area by the window, and a bathroom with subway tile and a clawfoot tub. Asher sets our bags down and looks around. "This okay?"
"It's lovely."
He smiles. It's a real smile, not the tired half-version I've gotten used to. He crosses the room and pulls me into a hug. I tense at first, and then force myself to breathe, relax, and see how I feel beneath the distance. His arms feel solid and familiar. For a moment, I remember what it was like when we were good.
We unpack slowly. Asher hangs his shirts in the closet. I put my toiletries in the bathroom. We move around each other carefully, like we're relearning how to share space.
At seven we walk to a restaurant a few blocks away. It's a seafood place with exposed brick walls and a great vibe. The hostess seats us at a table near the window. The menu is handwritten on a chalkboard. Asher orders a bottle of wine. The first glass goes down easy. So does the second.
We order oysters and salmon and a side of roasted vegetables that come drizzled in brown butter. The food is good. Better than good. I tell Asher this and he nods, pleased.
