“We ended up in the water.”
“It was a creek, and it was shallower than your swimming pool.”
She sighs. “Just tell me what you have up your sleeve.”
Taking a deep breath, I tell her what I’m thinking, ignoring her wide eyes and puckered lips, focused on delivering my monologue to the unimpressionable painting behind her.
“Ballsy,” she hoots.
By the time I wrap up my idea, I think she’s sold by the small grin on her face.
“Risky,” she says, fist-bumping me. “But you got yourself a deal.”
When Holden returns home later that night, before Adrienne leaves, my ears perk at the sound of my name, and even after I lower the volume on the television, their muted voices don’t carry from the kitchen. I wonder what they’re saying about me. He’s probably relieved she kept me company so I wasn’t left to my own devices.
When I hear his footsteps creak toward the living room, I turn the volume back up so he doesn’t know I attempted to eavesdrop.
“Is everything okay?” I ask when he strides in, a grimace on his face as if he didn’t expect me to be sitting on the couch in our home, watching reruns of my favorite show.
“Yeah. It’s just, you know, it just looks so normal.” He runs a hand over his face, hiding his emotions from me. “We haven’t had a sense of normalcy in a long time.”
Though I pat the seat next to me, Holden instead takes the armchair to my left. His outward rejection stings. It reminds me of a middle school dance when I was picked last, and only because my friend Kristin threatened to beat a kid up. He was a skinny twig. She totally could have.
“How was class?”
“It was good. The students are eager to learn this semester, which I love.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Did you eat?”
“Not yet.”
“Sib, I told you guys to order takeout.”
“I don’t have much of an appetite right now.” I rest a throw pillow in my lap. “What did you mean about this being normal?”
“We just live completely separate lives.”
“Is that my fault?”
“Not what I said.” He scratches at his beard.
“It seems like a slight.” I tense. “You never take responsibility for being a shitty husband.”
Swiftly, he stands back up. “Sib, not everything is meant to lead to an argument, yet you always go straight for the jugular.”
Hunching over so he can’t see my face, I murmur, “Okay.”
“We both are guilty of it. That’s all I’m saying.”
I don’t bother looking up at him. “What do you want to do about it?”
“I don’t know.” He rests an arm on the banister of our staircase. “You are selfish, Sibley. You have no regard for anyone else.” I start to cut him off, but he silences me with a deep growl. “Wrecking your vehicle, being irresponsible with your job. You didn’t consider how a leave of absence without pay would affect our finances.” He stares at me sadly. “And don’t think I didn’t notice our wiped-out savings.”
“That’s all I am, isn’t it?” I screech. “A meal ticket for you.”
If Holden hears me, he doesn’t answer. His next words are a slap in the face. “Not to mention your commitment to this marriage. I caught you in a lie a couple weeks ago, Sib.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You weren’t with Tanner on your birthday.” He sinks onto the bottom step as if he’s too tired to hold himself upright. “You lied to me. This is all . . . it’s all too much.”
His words and tone would normally cause hostility in me, but I’m also worn out from mental exhaustion. “Do you want to . . . do you want to get a . . .”
As much as we’re struggling right now, I can’t bring myself to say the D word out loud. Our marriage has been tested and broken, and no matter how many times we fight and talk it out and repeat the process, it’s another thing entirely to admit it’s irretrievably broken.
“I’m going to move into the guest room for now.”
“Don’t bother.” I slowly rise, careful of my now-pounding headache. “Since I’m going away, I can sleep in the spare room.”
“Sibley.” His hand reaches out to clumsily touch my shoulder. “I want you to get better. Let’s take one baby step at a time. We don’t need to make any rash decisions about our marriage right now.”
I don’t trust myself to respond.
“It’s close to ten. Let me help you get into bed and get you some medicine. How’s the pain?”
“Slowly getting better.”
Gently he guides me up the stairs, his hand never leaving my elbow. When we get upstairs to our bedroom, he scans the ginormous closet as if he’s misplaced something.
“What’re you looking for?”
“Your luggage.” He shifts from foot to foot. “I need to get you packed. Anything you need before we leave on Wednesday?”
“Yeah, not to go.”
“Sibley.” He sighs. “Please.”
I point in the direction of the hallway. “It’s in the guest room.”
“Thanks.” He nods.
“By the way,” I say casually, “I saw online they ask for all your medical records before checking in. Did you see that?”
“I had them sent, yes.”
“Wow! You are really on it!” I sardonically add, “How long have you been planning my vacation?”
“Sib,” he groans. “Your firm reached out to me. We discussed an intervention, but a lot of times, that doesn’t work. One of the partners had a bad experience with that, so we went this route.”
In the awkward silence, we both go into the master bath to brush our teeth and get ready for bed. He helps me out of my lounge clothing, a welcome break from the structured dresses I tend to wear. I wouldn’t be able to wear the formfitting material right now with my bruises.
Sliding into a silk camisole and matching shorts, I ask curiously, “Are you packing for me because you’re worried I’ll try to slip in some illegal contraband or sexy clothing?”
“Why do you say that?”
I tell him about the prohibited clothing, and it breaks the
