Chapter 2

The seven-hour flight was spent in a suffocating silence punctuated only by the low roar of the engines.

Stellan sat rigid beside me, his broad shoulders squared against the narrow economy seat. He didn't sleep.

He spent the first twenty minutes staring blankly at the safety manual wedged in the seatback pocket before leaning his head back.

Halfway through the descent, a soft click beside my arm drew my attention.

A standard plastic bottle of water sat on my fold-down tray. The cap had been unscrewed half a turn--just enough to break the factory seal, leaving it loose enough for fingers that lacked the strength to twist them open.

It was a habit born from our third year together, when minor joint stiffness had left me unable to open a jar of preserves, and he had spent an hour rubber-banding every lid in our pantry.

My eyes drifted to his hands resting against his thighs. The heavy silver wedding band still clung to his left ring finger.

"Drink it," he said, looking forward. "You didn't touch the ginger ale."

"I wasn't thirsty."

"You've had your eyes closed for hours. Your lips are dry."

He didn't offer it with tenderness; it was the practical observation of a man monitoring a situation. Still, my throat felt like dry parchment.

I picked up the bottle and drank.

The cold water hit my stomach like lead. A sharp, twisting cramp radiated outward from beneath my ribs, doubling me over against the seatbelt.

Stellan caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

"Travel sickness?"

"Just stiff," I managed.

He turned his head, his gray eyes searching my face.

"You've lost weight, Irene."

"Everyone loses weight on a restricted diet."

"Since when are you on a restricted diet?"

"Since I decided to stop eating my feelings."

The retort closed down the conversation. Stellan pulled back, his expression hardening into a familiar shell as he turned his face toward the window.

We touched down in Anchorage under an overcast sky. A steady rain streaked the airport's windows, swallowing the Chugach Mountains in gray mist.

As soon as we reached the gate, Stellan pulled my canvas duffel from the overhead bin.

"I can take it," I said.

"I know."

He slung the strap over his shoulder and strode toward the exit, forcing me to hustle down the jet bridge.

At the rental counter, Stellan rejected the first mid-sized SUV assigned to us, pointing out uneven wear along the outer shoulder of the rear tire. When the counter clerk offered an impatient sigh, Stellan didn't blink.

He crouched right there on the linoleum, running his thumb over the rubber tread.

"If I'm taking my wife up the highway in this weather, I want a vehicle with proper tread," he told the agent, his voice level.

"You're on vacation, mister," the clerk muttered.

"Bald tires don't care about vacation schedules."

Ten minutes later, we rolled out in a different SUV that smelled of pine cleaner and damp rubber. Stellan adjusted the mirrors, tested the brake pedal twice against the wet pavement, and flicked the heater to high.

He turned the key, put the transmission in drive, and spared a glance toward the passenger seat. "Where to?"

"Downtown."

He flicked the left turn signal, nosing us out into the steady Anchorage drizzle. "To check into the hotel?"

"Dinner first."

He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. "The diner is where we're crossing off the first promise?"

"It is."

"You always did like a full itinerary."

He navigated the familiar downtown grid and pulled into the gravel lot of a retro diner with a faded neon sign. The interior was remarkably unchanged--a row of cracked red vinyl booths hugging the rain-streaked windows, smelling of fried onions and coffee.

A silver-haired waitress bustled over with two laminated menus.

"You folks just passing through?" she asked cheerfully.

Stellan and I spoke in unison.

"Yes," he said.

"No," I countered.

The waitress blinked.

I forced a smile. "We were here eight years ago. Just visiting."

"Then welcome back," she chuckled, tapping the table with her pen. "Hope the food's still as good as you remember."

The kitchen door swung open before she could leave. A broad man in a stained white apron leaned through it, squinted at Stellan, then pointed a spatula at him.

"The mechanic," he said. "You fixed my delivery van in the rain."

His eyes moved to me. "And you're the woman who threatened to make him sleep in the car because he forgot to hold the onions."

"He didn't forget," I said. "He thought I would grow out of it."

"Eight years, and she's still right." The man grinned and offered me his hand. "Mike. I own the place now. Holler if you need anything that isn't on the menu."

For one harmless minute, we were not a dying marriage at a diner table. We were the couple someone remembered.

Then Mike disappeared into the kitchen, and the manila envelope in my bag seemed to gain weight.

She hurried off toward the kitchen. Stellan opened his menu immediately.

I left mine closed in my lap.

"You're not ordering?" he asked.

"I know what I want."

"So do I."

Before I could stop him, he flagged down the waitress and rattled off our order from memory. A classic cheeseburger, stripped of onions, with extra-crisp fries and a slice of apple pie with vanilla ice cream.

My order from eight years ago.

For himself, he requested meatloaf and black coffee.

When the waitress retreated, I kept my hands folded. "You didn't need to order for me, Stellan."

"You said you remembered what you liked."

"I do."

"Then what's the issue?"

Solid food had become a fight my body usually lost. But I couldn't say that.

"No issue," I murmured.

Stellan rolled his heavy ceramic coffee mug between his palms.

"So," he began quietly. "How are we managing these... rules?"

"One promise per day."

"And once we clear the final day?"

"I sign the papers. You take the car, the house, and your clean break."

"And what do you take?"

"An end to the loop."

Rain crawled down the window behind him, bending the diner's red neon into broken lines. Stellan kept turning the mug, though the coffee inside had gone still.

"You keep treating this like a transaction, Irene," he said without looking up. "Seven days of penance in exchange for my signature."

"It's not penance."

"Then what is it?"

The waitress returned, sliding heavy plates across the Formica.

The aroma hit me instantly--hot beef, melted cheddar, toasted butter.

My stomach gave a violent lurch. Across the table, Stellan picked up my burger, neatly lifting the top bun.

With practiced care, he began plucking out hidden condiments and stray traces of onions.

"Still hate onions?" he asked.

"Yes."

He reassembled the sandwich and pushed it toward me.

I picked up the heavy bun. Under the weight of his steady gaze, I took a single, minuscule bite.

For a fleeting second, it tasted like youth, like road trips.

Then came the fire.

A sharp agony ripped across my upper abdomen. I chewed with agonizing slowness, forcing the food down.

I set the burger back down.

"How is it?" Stellan asked, reaching for the ketchup.

"Fine. I think the travel just caught up with my stomach."

"You used to polish off a double-patty after twenty hours in the car."

"I'm forty-one, Stellan. Metabolism changes."

"You're blaming a burger on aging?"

"I have to blame something."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips.

My heart hammered against my ribs. In that tiny fraction of a second, I wanted nothing more than to throw the divorce papers into the rain, lean across the booth, and beg him to hold me.

Then the nausea crested.

I pushed myself away from the table with a scrape of plastic against the floor.

"Bathroom," I choked out, turning away.

Stellan's smile vanished, replaced by defensive tension. "Irene?"

"I'm fine. Just give me a minute."

I bolted across the floor, pushed into the women's restroom, and collapsed onto my knees in front of the first toilet stall, locking the deadbolt.

The cheeseburger came up instantly, burning my throat with acid.

I clutched the porcelain rim, my knuckles turning white as wave after wave wracked my frame. When my stomach ran out of substance, it kept contracting, squeezing out a thin streak of blood.

I coughed into my right sleeve, using the fabric to wipe my mouth before staggering up to the sink to splash cold water over my face.

I fished a tube of lipstick from my coat pocket, swiped color across my lips, and forced my reflection to look composed.

When I pushed the door open, Stellan was waiting just outside, his phone in his hand. The screen was illuminated, displaying a map route to an urgent care clinic three blocks away.

"We're finding a clinic," he said, his voice flat.

"No."

"You just spent ten minutes throwing up in a public restroom, Irene."

"I have a sensitive stomach. You know that."

"I know when someone is hiding something." He took a step closer. "Let's go."

The warmth of his presence terrified me. If he took me to a clinic, the illusion ended.

He would stay out of duty, and I would die a patient instead of a wife.

"Stop it, Stellan."

"Stop what? Wanting to make sure my wife isn't tearing herself apart?"

"You're divorcing me, Stellan! You already decided this marriage was over. You don't get to play the worried husband!"

Stellan flinched, the anger draining from his face, leaving behind a cold mask.

"Fine," he said softly. "If you say you're fine, you're fine. I'm done guessing."

He turned on his heel and walked out toward the rental vehicle, leaving me standing alone in the damp entryway.

My hands shook as I fished my phone out of my coat pocket. Without thinking, I pulled out the translucent plastic sleeve containing the grease-stained motel menu--the seven promises we had written eight years ago.

I peeled back the plastic flap to slide the paper out, but my right cuff brushed the corner. As I pushed the menu back into its sleeve, a dark red streak followed it across the first promise, leaving a smear of darkening blood directly over the ink.

Put down your bags and share a meal.

Staring down at the blood-stained paper, I heard the heavy crunch of gravel outside. The diner door swung open.

Stellan stepped back inside, his jaw set, unwilling to leave me behind in the dark parking lot despite his frustration.

He saw the plastic sleeve in my hand, stopped short, and took two steps closer before I could tuck it away.

His eyes dropped from my face to the paper.

To the unmistakable smear of crimson staining the corner where Promise Number One was written.

Stellan reached out, his fingers brushing mine as he caught the edge of the plastic sleeve, pulling it just far enough into the light to read the streak.

The anger vanished from his eyes, replaced by a sudden stillness.

"Did you cut yourself?" he asked, the words low and controlled.

I snatched the menu back, pressing it against my chest like a shield.

"I bit my lip," I lied, my voice shaking. "The dry cabin air."

Stellan didn't look convinced. He stared at my mouth, then down at the red smudge on the plastic.

Without another word, Stellan reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his car keys, and held them up in his palm. His phone remained in his other hand, the clinic route glowing on the screen.

"You can walk to the car with me, or I can call an ambulance," he said. "Pick one."