« You’re plotting something, » my husband had said that morning, kissing the top of my head.
« I’m plotting coffee. That’s it. »
« Liar. »
« Guilty. »
He’d laughed and grabbed his car keys, and I’d watched him go, feeling that steady, boring, wonderful sense that my life was exactly where it belonged.
« You’re plotting something. »
Except there were things I’d noticed over the years and quietly tucked away. Little inconsistencies I’d smoothed over the way you smooth a wrinkled tablecloth without really thinking about it.
On certain dates every year, Sean would go silent. My husband would shut himself in his study for hours, and when he came out, his eyes would be red, and he’d blame allergies or a long call with a client.
Except there were things I’d noticed.
Once, I’d walked into the study without knocking, and he’d shut a drawer so fast the wh0le desk shook.
