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“It sounds like a long time, but I’ll be home whenever I can.” She retreats when I reach for her. The rejection a jagged blade through my chest. “I know this is a big change⁠—”

“Big?” She throws her arms out, hands trembling. “Tate. This is enormous. Do you understand the ramifications of your actions? You say you’re doing this for us, but I don’t think you thought about me at all when you signed those papers. I need you to see how it looks from my perspective. Can you do that?”

Maybe I’m being stubborn and childish, but if I were in her shoes, I’d be shouting from the rooftops. The royalties and advances outlined in my contract are life changing, and I don’t know how to convince her otherwise. Not now, as the news stirs around in her head and she looks at me like…Jesus, she’s looking at me like I’ve betrayed her.

I scrub a hand down my face, the thrill extinguished. “Let’s talk about it in the morning.”

Talia can barely meet my eye, but when her gaze locks with mine, it’s filled with indignation. “What’s there to talk about? The damage is done.”

“Hey, don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” She roughly pulls the pins from her hair, the curls dropping to her shoulders. “Imagine I took a job halfway across the country without speaking with you.”

My brow furrows. I’d hate that.

“Exactly.” Without another word, she wanders past me and into the bedroom.

It’s the first time in our marriage we go to bed without saying “I love you.”

OURS, YOURS, MINE

Call it cliché, call it whatever you wish

There ain’t no love ever written like this

It’s one of a kind, my girl

And all ours for the taking

TWENTY-NINE

TATE

Mondays suck.

I’ve never held a nine to five, only working casual, unsociable hours, so I don’t get the whole Sunday scaries. My hatred for the day of the week comes from Talia having to work. For five days, her attention is elsewhere.

While she’s gone, I sulk around the house, stare at walls, daydream about my wife. Rinse and repeat.

By the time Wednesday comes around, I’m bored senseless.

Talia finishes up her day, finally extracting herself from her office to find me reclined on the couch, tongue tapping at my upper lip as I squint at the needle and thread trapped between my fingers.

“What’s going on here?” She pauses in the arched entryway to the living room. “Are you…are you knitting?”

I stab my finger for the tenth time. “Fuck. No. This is embroidery. Learn the difference.”

She blinks. “I’m going to ask again, what’s going on here?”

“A hobby.” I jerk my head toward the coffee table, littered with magazines about embroidery and basic stitchwork. “I’m bored.”

“So, you’re becoming a homemaker?” She stifles her giggle.

“If you’re going to tease me, go back to your lair.” I try again, and with practiced precision—two hours’ worth—I get the thread through the tiny hole. “Yes!”

Amusement flickers across her face as she settles next to my outstretched feet on the couch. “Why don’t you play your guitar? Come to think of it, I haven’t heard you play it once.”

I stop what I’m doing.