Page 93 of The Marriage Clause

Not even curiosity softened into kindness.

Just those three words.

I hold up the paper bag slightly. "Art supplies."

His gaze sharpens.

"You paint?"

The question catches me off guard. "I used to."

And there it is again. Used to.

His gaze catches on mine, a flicker, gone before I can read it.

Then he nods once, glances at the half-finished canvas under my arm, and says, "Did you have a good day?"

I nearly laugh because it sounds like a script titled How to Make Basic Husband Conversation While Still Emotionally Avoiding Your Wife.

But at least he tried.

"I did," I say.

His eyes stay on me for a beat too long. Or maybe I just notice them more now.

Then he steps back into the office.

The glass door stays partly open behind him.

Not wide.

Not welcoming.

But not shut either.

I notice.

Maybe because I've already started turning his distance into symbols.

Maybe because he makes it too easy.

I set the art supplies on the counter and look out toward the pool glittering in the late afternoon sun.

If Everett wants to spend this trip behind glass, fine.

I'm done waiting for permission to enjoy it.

I head upstairs, change into the blue bikini Everly absolutely packed on purpose, and when I catch myself in the mirror, I don't look like the woman who got fired from the Hawkeyes and cried in her car because her life was collapsing.

I look alive.

That alone feels miraculous.

When I step out onto the terrace and dive into the pool, the water is cool enough to pull a laugh out of me before I can stop it.

And maybe that's the real beginning.

Not the wedding.