Chapter 3

By midnight, I had read Maren's words in my head so many times that my chest felt hollow.

I went downstairs for water because I could not bear lying beside Ethan and pretending sleep had come.

A thin line of light cut across the hallway from the guest room. I should have kept walking. Instead, I stopped at the corner.

"I can leave by Monday," Maren said quietly. "I don't want to be the reason your marriage falls apart."

Ethan stepped closer. "You're not."

Before I could move away, Maren folded into him.

His hand came up slowly, almost carefully, and settled between her shoulder blades. It stayed there after she had stopped shaking.

Then Ethan looked up.

He saw me.

His arms fell away too quickly. "Nora, it wasn't—she was upset."

"I saw," I said.

“She was upset. I just held her for a second.”

“Don’t look at me like I did something wrong.”

I looked at him. "Then don't come upstairs tonight."

Ethan froze, his eyes narrowing in shock. "What?"

"Don't come upstairs," I repeated, my voice entirely flat.

I turned on my heel, walked back upstairs to our bedroom, and pulled Ethan's pillow and heavy fleece blanket off his side of the bed.

I walked out to the landing, set them squarely on the center of the living room sofa, and walked back into our bedroom, turning the lock with a sharp, decisive click.

It was the first time in seven years of marriage that I had shut him out of our bed.

The next morning, Ethan had set my favorite mug beside a plate of toast, as if breakfast could erase the couch, the locked door, and the embrace in the hallway.

I didn't answer. I reached into my coat pocket, took out a white card, and slid it across the granite counter until it stopped right beside his coffee mug.

I slid the card across the counter. "Dr. Vance. Saturday. Four o'clock."

Ethan looked at it. "You're actually doing this."

"Doing what," I said. "I made an appointment."

"After last night," he said. "You're dragging me to therapy over a hug."

"It's not about the hug," I said. "It's about what you said after."

He was quiet for a beat. "I said I was sorry."

"No, you didn't," I said. "You said she was upset. You said I was making it into something it wasn't. You said—"

"Fine," he cut in. His jaw tightened. "Saturday at four. I'll be there."

The screen lit up between our mugs.

Maren: Ethan, the latch on my studio darkroom door is jammed. Can you come down for a minute?

His whole face changed. His eyes dropped. His throat moved.

His hand pressed flat against the counter. His weight shifted forward.

Behind me, I heard the scrape of a chair.

Then the front door opened.

I did not turn around.

Upstairs, I set the portfolio on my desk and changed out of my scrubs.

I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw the date again. September 14.