Chapter 7 - The Things That Count —
Rachel and I hadn’t slept together.
We hadn’t kissed.
For weeks, I had treated those facts as if they settled every question worth asking.
Now I opened our messages and scrolled.
Lunch breaks.
Late nights.
Pictures of old college places.
Long conversations about her grief and my work.
One message from Rachel read:
You’re the only person I can talk to without pretending I’m okay.
My answer:
You never have to pretend with me.
I stared at it.
I had offered Rachel the very thing Emma had been trying to get from her husband.
Room to be scared.
Room to be inconvenient.
Room to need more than a quick promise.
When Emma called that afternoon, I answered before the first ring finished.
“I want to ask you something,” she said.
“Anything.”
“Were you having an affair?”
“No.”
The answer came fast.
Too fast.
She said nothing.
“Nothing physical happened.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
I sat down.
“No,” I said more carefully. “But I gave her attention I stopped giving you. I told her things I should have been telling you. And I kept calling that friendship because it made me feel better.”
Emma’s breathing was faint against the receiver.
“I wasn’t jealous of her grief,” she said.
“I know.”
“You asked me that like there were only two possibilities. Either I was fine, or I was being unreasonable.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She needed support. I understood that.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know.”
I pressed my lips together.
“I understood she was hurting,” Emma continued. “What I couldn’t understand was why her pain got a chair at our table and mine had to wait outside.”
I looked toward the living room.
The white onesie was still on the couch.
“I don’t have an answer that makes me look good.”
“I’m not asking for one.”
“They’re letting you go home?”
“Soon, if things stay stable.”
“With Claire?”
“Yes.”
“Can I help?”
“You can bring what I ask for. You can answer when I call. And you can stop making every conversation about whether I’m coming back.”
“All right.”
“There’s something else.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“I called a counselor before Christmas,” she said. “For us.”
I shut my eyes.
“The appointment was in the calendar.”
I remembered deleting a reminder because it conflicted with a client meeting.
I had assumed it was optional.
May you like
Emma’s voice grew quiet.
“I went alone.”
