Chapter 3
Taylor walked in, still carrying the cold from outside.
I was sitting on the mat in the living room, cradling Isobel in my arms.
Willow was in the kitchen, washing dishes.
Taylor bent down and kissed Isobel on the forehead.
Isobel ignored him and turned to grab my hair instead.
He chuckled.
"Was she good today?" he asked.
I said, "She was pretty good."
He loosened his tie. "You don't look so good."
"Just running a low fever."
"Did you take anything for it?"
"Yeah."
I didn't even remember when it started, but now, all we ever said to each other were things like this.
Did you eat?
Did you sleep?
How was the baby?
Taylor changed and went into the dining room to eat.
Willow came out with the food.
When she saw Taylor, she kept her face neutral.
But I noticed she placed a plate of shrimp stir-fry right in front of him.
Taylor didn't even say thank you.
He didn't even ask why she'd made it tonight.
He picked up his fork and took a bite, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Then it hit me that Taylor had told me before that he didn't like shrimp.
He said it was too much trouble.
In three years of marriage, I'd never made shrimp at home.
But tonight, he ate it like it was nothing out of the ordinary.
Willow stood nearby and said, "Mr. Francis, the soup's on the stove."
Taylor just responded with a simple "mm."
Even that response felt perfectly normal.
It was like they had this silent routine between them, like it'd always been that way.
I bent down to straighten Isobel's bib.
The knot in my chest got tighter.
At ten o'clock, Willow finished her shift.
She lived nearby, but always went home at night. She never stayed over.
Taylor walked her to the door and gave her a paper bag.
"Take this," he said.
Willow nudged it back toward him.
"I really shouldn't," Willow said quietly.
"It's for the kid. Don't let him go buying random stuff."
I stood behind the bedroom door, my hand hovering over the doorknob.
Him, not her, so it wasn't for Isobel.
Willow was quiet for a few seconds.
"He's been a lot more mature lately," Willow said.
"I'll come by on Friday," Taylor said.
Willow leaned in and lowered her voice.
"What about Mrs. Francis?"
Taylor cut her off. "She doesn't know."
*****
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Taylor came out of the bathroom after his shower and saw me leaning against the headboard.
"Why aren't you asleep yet?" he asked.
"I've got a headache," I said. "I've got a headache."
He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to feel my forehead.
"You still have a bit of a fever," he said.
His palm still had that familiar warmth.
As I looked at his face, he suddenly seemed like a stranger to me.
He'd been there for every doctor's appointment, helped me pick out the crib, and even got teary-eyed the day Isobel was born.
But just now, standing by the door, he'd said, "She doesn't know."
He said it so steady, like he'd done this a thousand times before.
It felt like keeping me in the dark was always part of the plan.
I asked, "Got something going on Friday?"
Taylor looked up. "Company dinner."
"You won't be home for dinner?"
"No."
He didn't hesitate.
He wasn't coming up with an excuse.
He'd had that answer lined up for a while.
I nodded. "Just don't drink too much."
He looked at me for a moment.
"Are you okay today?" Taylor asked.
"The fever's making me feel awful."
I pulled the blanket up and closed my eyes.
"Get some sleep."
He turned off the light.
In the darkness, I heard his phone buzz.
He didn't check it right away.
After a few minutes, when he thought I was asleep, he finally picked it up.
The screen's glow flickered across his face.
He replied in a flash.
I could hear the quiet tapping of his fingers on his phone screen.
The sound was barely there.
But every tap felt like a blow straight to my heart.
*****
The next morning, before Taylor left for work, he gave Isobel a quick kiss, just like always.
Isobel was busy gnawing on her cloth book and didn't even look up.
Taylor chuckled.
"You little rascal," he teased.
Willow was nearby, tidying up the bottles.
She smiled too.
There was a kind of deep familiarity in her smile, like she'd been part of moments like this forever.
I pulled Isobel close, avoiding Willow's hand as she reached out.
"I'll take care of her myself for a bit today," I said.
Willow paused.
"You're still sick," Willow said.
"I'm feeling a lot better," I replied.
I looked at her. "How about you go out and pick up some groceries this morning? You can get some rest while you're at it."
She had no choice but to agree.
Before slipping on her shoes and heading out, Willow gave Isobel a quick, lingering glance.
It was brief, but there was a touch of reluctance in the way she looked at her.
The moment the door closed, I put Isobel in her crib.
She let out a soft coo.
I gently stroked her cheek.
"I will be right back," I whispered.
The house was quiet.
I headed to the kitchen first.
The stove was spotless, and Willow's handwritten menu plan was stuck to the fridge. "Isobel's baby food, Taylor's dinner, and Mrs. Francis's oatmeal."
Every line was neat and tidy.
I checked the trash.
There was nothing out of the ordinary.
Then I headed out to the balcony.
Willow's apron was hanging by the washing machine.
The pockets were empty.