Page 13 of The Husband I Left

And sometimes he’d lock the office door and pull the blinds.

The first time, I was gathering up the wrappers. He was supposed to be at a meeting in ten minutes, and instead I heard the soft click of the lock. When I turned around, he was looking at me with that expression that always had my blood heating.

“Oliver. You have a meeting.”

“The meeting can wait,” he said, backing me up against his desk, his mouth already on my neck, his hands sliding under my sweater.

Afterward, he walked me to the elevator with his hair wrecked from my fingers, and the receptionist who’d looked at me with skepticism was suddenly intensely interested in her computer screen.

I am not a morning person. I have always been a hit the snooze button and sleep until the last possible second type of person. But Oliver left at six, and so every morning at five-thirty I would drag myself out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen where I’d make Oliver’s coffee before he left. He’d make his way into the kitchen and pull me against him, his face pressed into my hair, and we’d stand there for a moment.

“Good morning, Mrs. Sinclair,” he’d murmur against my neck.

“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair,” I’d whisper back.

Nights were harder. Oliver came home late so often that I stopped expecting him for dinner. But I started waiting up. I’d curl up on the couch with a book or my laptop, and when I heard the elevator ding, I’d hop up and go to the kitchen and make hot chocolate. Real hot chocolate, not the stuff made with powder.

The first time I handed Oliver a mug, he looked at it as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

“I haven’t had hot chocolate since I was a child,” he told me.

“Well, that’s a tragedy,” I replied. “Drink up.”

It became our thing. He’d come home, loosen his tie, drop onto the couch, and I’d hand him a mug, and we’d sit together for a while. Sometimes we’d sit quietly. Sometimes we’d talk about our days.

The notes that I would leave for him started as a joke. He was packing for a business trip to London, and I slipped it into his luggage.

Missing you already. Property of Mrs. Sinclair, return if found.

When he came home, it was in his wallet. Creased, as if it had been taken out and read more than once. So I kept doing it. I’d slip notes into his suit pockets or leave them in his shoes. I’d put them in his laptop bag. I’d hide them in his office when I brought him lunch.

Thinking of you. Also, we’re out of milk.

You’re very handsome, please come home early.

Whatever today throws at you, you’ve got this. Also, your wife thinks you’re hot.

I love you more than salt and vinegar chips (which is a lot) (you know how I feel about those chips).

Once, I drew a stick figure of him in a suit with a speech bubble that said I AM VERY IMPORTANT, and slipped it into the folder he was taking into a board meeting.

He never mentioned the notes. But sometimes I’d catch him smiling at nothing, his fingers brushing against his pocket, and I’d know he’d found another one.

And Oliver surprised me, too. Constantly.

He’d come home on a random Thursday and tell me to pack a bag. The destination was always different. A cabin in Vermont or a vineyard in California. He’d turn off his phone, and for the whole weekend, he’d belong only to me.

I’d come home to find a note, and a dress laid out on the bed, and the driver would be waiting downstairs, and Oliver would be waiting at some romantic destination. Once he booked out an entire rooftop restaurant so we could have dinner together alone under the stars.

He never failed to bring me back gifts when he traveled. Sometimes jewelry, sometimes snacks in flavors I couldn’t get in the US, sometimes books he thought I might like, sometimes a new stuffed animal for my collection.

Oliver Sinclair loved me.

He never once said the words out loud, but I was as sure of it as I was of my own name.

* * *

Looking back, I can’t tell you the exact moment it started. There was no fight, no slammed door, no one moment that I could point to and say, “See? That’s it, that’s where we broke.” Everything that was good in our marriage just started slowly fading away.