Page 38 of Wreckage and Rain
He stops.
“The woman you’ve been married to for four years should not need a system notification to remind you she exists.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know how I—”
“I texted you yesterday morning.”
His mouth closes.
“Dinner at seven at my parents’. Don’t forget.” I can hear how pathetic that last part sounds, and it makes my throat burn. “You read it. The receipt came back before I even put my phone down.”
He looks at the floor.
“You read my message and didn’t answer. You read it and didn’t come. So don’t blame your calendar. Your calendar didn’t forget me.”
“Summer, please.”
“I’m not done.”
He looks up.
I’ve never said those words to him in this voice. It doesn’t shake. It doesn’t plead.
It sounds like a lock turning.
“My parents closed the diner early for me. Mama cooked all afternoon. Daddy put sunflowers on every table because he remembered they’re my favorite. He made a banner, Colt. It was crooked and terrible, and he was so proud of it.”
My voice catches on the memory. I swallow and keep going.
“Autumn was there. Jake was there. People I haven’t seen in months came because my parents told them it mattered to me.”
I look straight at him.
“Everyone was there except my husband.”
His eyes shine, but I can’t let that move me. I have spent too long being moved by his regret after the fact.
“And then, on the day you forgot I was born, you texted me, ‘Don’t wait up.’ Like I was a light you wanted turned off before you got home.”
He presses both hands over his mouth.
“I am so sorry.”
“I slept on Autumn’s couch.”
His hands fall.
“What?”
“I didn’t come home last night.”
“I thought you were asleep when I got in.”
“You didn’t check.”
He stares at me.
“You walked into a dark house after midnight, didn’t see your wife, and never once wondered where I was.”
