Page 83 of Knights Like These
“I don’t want to fight about this,” she says.
I release a slow breath. “Syd, I hear what you’re saying. I do. I just—” I look at the sky, which has nothing useful to offer me. “You’ve been in this house for two months, and it’s the first time it’s felt like a home since Bree left. Maybe even before that. The thought of you having another place to go makes me feel like—”
I stop.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve already thought about what it looks like when this doesn’t work.”
She stares at me across the water. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It sure feels like it.”
“I’m just saying,” she leans back enough to look at me, “we’ve been—whatever we’ve been—for about five minutes. You’ve been divorced for four months. None of this is settled. Nothing about us is settled. And I think having my own place while we figure it out isn’t the craziest idea in the world.”
“It feels like a safety net.”
“Maybe it is a safety net. Maybe I need one. You were married, Arch. You had a wife and a family, and it didn’t work. Now I’m here, and I need to know that if this goes sideways, I’m not homeless.”
“You’d never be homeless,” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.
That one sits between us for a while.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Any of it. The relationship. The labels. The, uh—” I wave one hand above the water. “All of it. I’m in the middle of theseason, under an incredible amount of pressure, and I’m trying to navigate this the best I can. Sorry I don’t really know how to do this.”
We look at each other. The hot tub hums. A car honks somewhere on the other side of the fence.
“I’m getting out,” she says. “I’m cold and frustrated, and I need to not be having this conversation in a bathing suit.”
She stands up, wraps herself in a towel, picks up her wine glass, and walks inside.
The back door closes behind her. I sit in the hot tub alone, steam rising around me, replaying every word from the last ten minutes. I can’t figure out where I went wrong—except maybe everywhere.
I get out. The cold air hits me, and I wrap a towel around my waist as I walk inside. The kitchen light is off, and I can hear her footsteps upstairs, the guest room door opening and closing. Not a slam. Just the click.
I take a shower. I get into bed. My bed. Alone. The sheets are cold, the house is quiet, and I lie there thinking about the woman on the other side of the hallway who asked me for one reasonable thing—and I turned it into a fight because I’m afraid of her having somewhere to go that isn’t here.
My phone is on the nightstand. I pick it up and put it down three times. I want to text her. I want to walk down the hall, knock on her door, and say, “I’m sorry, you’re right. Get the apartment. Get ten apartments. I don’t care, just don’t be mad at me.”
But I don’t. I lie there in my bed, alone, in a house that has her in it and still somehow feels empty tonight.
I’ll fix this tomorrow. I have to fix this tomorrow.
Somehow.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Staying
Sydney
The morning is quiet in the most awful way possible.
He’s at the counter when I come down, pouring coffee. He slides my mug across the island the way he always does, except today there’s about three extra inches of distance built into the handoff. I take it and say thank you. He replies, “You’re welcome.” Lily asks for waffles, and Luke asks for toast. We move through the kitchen like two people sharing a space in an airport lounge—aware of each other, careful not to collide, definitely not making eye contact.
