Chapter 2 - The Man in the Doorway
Julian did not shout.
Men like him rarely needed to.
He stood outside my hospital room in a navy suit, speaking quietly to a nurse who had no interest in his bank balance.
After a moment, she stepped inside.
“Would you like a few minutes before deciding?”
“Yes.”
She closed the door.
Laurel looked at me.
“You don’t have to see him today.”
“I know.”
I wanted to believe that saying it meant I had always known.
The truth was that I had spent years confusing his access to me with an obligation.
His calls were answered.
His plans became our plans.
His bad moods changed the temperature of the apartment before he even came home.
Now there was a nurse between us, and he had to wait.
I fed Owen.
I drank water.
I asked Laurel to help me sit higher against the pillows.
Only then did I agree to ten minutes.
Julian entered carrying nothing.
Someone had finally explained that flowers would make things worse.
His eyes went to Owen.
For a moment, his face opened in a way I had once loved.
“Our son,” he whispered.
I watched him carefully.
“Yes.”
He approached the bed.
I held up one hand.
“Wash your hands.”
He stopped.
Then he went to the sink.
Such a simple instruction. Such a strange expression on his face when I gave it.
When he returned, I let him sit beside the bassinet.
He looked at Owen as though trying to memorize him quickly.
“He has your mouth.”
“He has his own mouth.”
Julian glanced at me.
“Maren.”
“Where were you?”
He exhaled.
“There were complications with the departure.”
“Who was the woman?”
Laurel remained by the window.
Julian looked toward her.
“She’s staying,” I said.
“This is private.”
“She held my hand while our son’s heart rate dropped. She can hear the rest.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he looked back at Owen.
“What happened?”
“The doctors handled it.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
I stared at him.
Laurel made a small, disbelieving sound.
Julian closed his eyes briefly.
“That came out wrong.”
“Most of what you’ve said today has.”
He leaned forward.
“I made a terrible mistake. I should have left sooner.”
“Who was she?”
“A consultant.”
“What kind?”
“Communications.”
“Did she consult from your bed?”
His silence lasted just long enough.
I felt the answer settle inside me.
It was less explosive than I expected.
Perhaps some part of me had already done the screaming.
“How long?”
“This isn’t the time.”
“That was apparently your opinion about coming home too.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“Four months.”
Laurel turned toward the window.
I looked at the wedding band on his hand.
Four months.
During the nursery renovation.
During the evening we chose Owen’s name.
During the appointment when the doctor showed us our son’s profile and Julian kissed my forehead.
“What’s her name?”
“Vivienne.”
“Does she know about me?”
“Yes.”
“About him?”
His eyes shifted to the bassinet.
“Yes.”
I nodded.
The room seemed terribly bright.
Julian reached for my hand.
I moved it.
“I’m ending it,” he said.
“You don’t get to present that as something you’re giving me.”
“I love you.”
I looked at the man who had once driven across the city in a snowstorm because I mentioned missing a particular bakery.
The man who could remember the wine I liked and forget the promises that mattered.
“I believe you like being loved by me,” I said. “I’m less certain what the rest means.”
He leaned back as though I had struck him.
For the first time, I did not hurry to soften what I had said.
“I’m not coming home,” I told him.
“We have a newborn.”
“Yes.”
“He needs stability.”
“He needed you this morning.”
Julian’s voice cooled.
“Be careful.”
Laurel turned immediately.
I looked straight at him.
“With what?”
He seemed to hear himself then.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
He had no answer I wanted.
I pressed the call button.
The nurse arrived almost at once.
“Our visit is finished,” I told her.
Julian stood slowly.
“You’re tired. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“We’ll talk through Elise Navarro.”
He recognized the name.
His expression changed.
“You called a lawyer?”
“I made some calls,” I said.
He looked at me for another moment.
Then he left.
Afterward, Laurel sat beside the bed.
My hands were shaking so badly I could not open the wrapper around a cracker.
She opened it for me.
“Was that cruel?” I asked.
“No.”
“I wanted it to be.”
“That’s allowed too.”
May you like
Late that night, while Laurel slept in the chair Julian had finally occupied for nine minutes, a message arrived from an unfamiliar number.
This is Vivienne Rusk. Before you sign anything your husband brings you, you should ask him about the apartment on Mercer Street.
