Chapter 5: The Deal

I found her on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up and arms locked around them like she was trying to keep something from spilling out. She wore one of my old T-shirts from Iowa, the soft gray one that had thinned at the collar. It hung loose on her. Her face was blotchy and wet, eyes swollen, and when she saw me she tried to wipe her cheeks with the heel of her hand and only smeared the tears farther. She looked tiny and fragile. Smaller than she had been in a long time. Smaller than the woman who used to meet me at the door when I got home from work in Des Moines and start telling me about her day before the kids even finished saying hello.

I sat down beside her. The mattress shifted under my weight, and she didn’t pull away, so I put an arm around her shoulders and drew her in until her forehead rested against my collarbone. She was warm and shaking. I felt her breath hitch against my chest. I kissed the top of her head and kept my hand moving in slow circles between her shoulder blades. My own chest felt tight. I’d spent the drive home trying not to picture her the way my brain had started picturing her after Richard’s kitchen confession—on her knees, mouth open, another man’s hands in her hair—and now she was crying into my shirt, and all I could think was that I was the reason she was crying. The job. The move. The hours. Me.

“Hey,” I said. My voice came out quieter than I meant it to. “I’m here. Talk to me.”

She tried. The first sound that came out was a wet, broken sob she couldn’t quite swallow. I stayed quiet and let her cry into my shirt. My other hand found the back of her neck and stayed there, thumb stroking the short hairs at her hairline. It took a while before she could get words out, and even then they came in pieces, like she was afraid if she said too much at once I’d stop listening.

“I hate it here, Nick,” she said. The words were thick and uneven. “I have tried. I really tried. I wanted it to work because I know how much you wanted this job. I know what it means to you. But I’m so unhappy. I’m alone all day in this tiny house. When I take the kids to the park, I’m still alone. The other moms already know each other. They smile, and then they turn away, and I don’t know how to start a conversation. When I go to the grocery store, I’m still alone. I stand in the aisle, don’t recognize half the brands, and feel like everyone can tell I don’t belong. You’re gone before the sun’s up, and you don’t get home until the kids are already in bed. I miss my mom. I miss my sisters. I miss having friends who know me. I miss you, and I keep thinking we made a mistake coming out here.”

I kept rubbing her back, and the guilt sat heavy under my ribs. I’d told her we could come back if it didn’t work. I’d said it on the porch in Iowa with the stars overhead, and I’d meant it. I’d also known, even then, that once we left, the door would start closing whether we wanted it to or not. Hearing her say it out loud made the promise feel thinner than it had when I made it.