Chapter 6: The Night He Almost Told Me
Mark made pasta that evening.
He opened a bottle of wine I hadn't seen before — something expensive, the kind he only brought out when he was trying to soften a room.
Ofelia ate with us, which she usually didn't.
She sat at the far end of the table and watched me the way she always watched me — like she was waiting for me to make a mistake she could point to later.
"You seem tired," Mark said, refilling my glass without asking.
"Long day," I said.
"Errands?"
"A few things I'd been putting off." I picked up my fork.
"How was the office?"
He talked about the office for ten minutes.
A contract that was close to signing.
An investor call that had gone well.
He was relaxed in a way that told me he didn't know yet.
Brenda hadn't warned him.
Or if she had tried, he hadn't believed her.
Ofelia pushed her plate aside.
"Laura, I've been meaning to ask.
Are you planning to go back to working at the company?"
I looked at her.
"Why do you ask?"
"Mark mentioned you've been feeling restless.
I thought perhaps you were considering it." She said it pleasantly, the way she said everything unpleasant.
"I haven't decided yet," I said.
Mark set his fork down.
"You don't need to, Laura.
The company is in good hands."
"I'm sure it is."
He looked at me for a moment — just a fraction too long.
Then he picked his fork back up.
After dinner, Ofelia went upstairs.
Mark poured the last of the wine and sat back down across from me.
The table between us had twenty-eight years of meals on it, and I was suddenly aware of every single one.
"Laura," he said.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
He turned his glass slowly.
"Are you happy?"
I looked at him.
His face was open in a way it hadn't been in a long time.
For a moment — just a moment — I thought he might actually say it.
Confess.
Lay it all down and ask me what came next.
"What's making you ask that?" I said.
He was quiet for a few seconds.
"I don't know.
I just feel like we've been — distant.
For a while.
And I wonder sometimes if I've been handling things right."
"Handling things," I repeated.
"With the company.
With the house.
With us." He looked up.
"I know it hasn't been easy, having my mother here."
"It's been an adjustment."
"I know." He reached across the table and put his hand over mine.
"I want things to be good between us.
I want you to know that."
I looked at his hand on mine.
The same hand that had signed twenty-three months of transfers to a woman in Phoenix.
The same hand that had rested on a little boy's shoulder in a photograph printed from Brenda's phone.
"I know you do," I said.
He squeezed my hand and let go.
"Get some sleep.
You look exhausted."
He carried the glasses to the sink and went upstairs.
I sat at the table alone for a long time.
The wine bottle was empty.
The kitchen was quiet.
Somewhere above me, I could hear the familiar sounds of Mark getting ready for bed — the water running, the creak of the floorboard near the window.
I thought about what Diana had said.
Seventy-two hours.
I thought about the boy in the photograph.
I thought about my father, who had poured his life savings into this marriage as much as into the company, because he had believed in us.
May you like
I got up, washed the glasses, and went to bed.
I did not sleep.
