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Tate’s expression shifts, and as if he senses my thoughts, he reaches across the table. “We’ll be okay, Tally Girl. This isn’t like last time. We’re stronger now. We’ll speak every day, and while I won’t be here on the twenty-third, I’m hoping this will be the next best thing.” He bends under his chair before placing a CD between us.

A Decade of Us is scrawled on the plastic case. “Music?”

He nods, giving nothing away. “Wait until our anniversary to listen to it.”

I chew my lip. “That’s almost a week away.”

He levels me with a stern look, nudging my foot under the table. “Do as you’re told.”

After a second serving of Annie’s chili, we snuggle up on a lounge chair together under the stars. Tate’s happy, content sigh whistles through the air as he closes his eyes. I admire him, tracing his strong brow, arched nose, and shaggy hair, committing his silhouette to memory.

“I feel you watching me,” he rumbles.

“I’m just thinking about what we’ll be doing a year from now.”

He cracks an eyelid. “Whatever we want. We’ll have all the time in the world to spend it together.”

FORTY-FIVE

TATE

ONE YEAR AGO–JULY

In almost nine years of marriage, Talia and I have only gone to bed angry at one another twice.

The first time because I ate the last of the potpie my mom made us when she visited.

The second when she got drunk in college and threw up in my guitar case.

Elementary reasons, but to us, they warranted the silent treatment or the cold shoulder.

Until recently.

I’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve gone to sleep following a heated argument since I signed with the label. Backs turned, silently stewing in our anger until we fell asleep, a crater of cold, empty space separating us.

Yesterday wasn’t supposed to be the last time I crawled into bed next to her. But then Howard called, and by the time we finished, Talia was in bed, curled up on her side, knees tucked to her chest as she feigned sleep. I knew she wasn’t asleep; her breathing was too quick, body tense, and she always slept with her hand tucked underneath my pillow. The trip to New York cut our remaining time short, but maybe some space would do us good. This was my job, and eventually she’d understand.

But god, if it doesn’t hurt that today’s goodbye is filled with contempt, the same festering energy that’s grown and grown between us for weeks. My suitcase sits at my feet, guitar resting against my spine as I wait for the car service Howard arranged to arrive.

She won’t look at me, her unsettled gaze following her wedding ring as she spins it around her finger.

“I think that’s everything,” I say. “I’ve emailed you my flight details.”

She nods, void of emotion, then more frosty silence, until I can’t take it anymore.

“It isn’t too late, you know. We could get you a ticket on the same flight, and we could spend some time in New York⁠—”

“I’m due in court next week for the Brown case. You know this.”

I wince. I do. She’d been busting her ass on that case for months, and me forgetting feels like another notch in the belt as the worst husband. “Yeah, sorry. You’ll text me how it goes?”

Another solemn nod. “Do you have your medication?”

“I’ve packed it. I won’t forget.” Reaching forward, I tap her chin. “Will you look at me?”

With painstaking slowness, she raises her gaze. I wish she were mad. I’d welcome her fire. Whatever this is makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t want to leave like this. “I’ll be home soon.”

“When is soon?”