I shake my head. “No.”
“This is becoming a pattern with him,” Jared says, a hard edge creeping in. “Three times this month.”
“He’s still adjusting to the new workload,” I say, my fingers finding the third wineglass on the counter. “Teaching is demanding.”
“His job ends when he drops Quinn off at the docks to go home. He’schoosingto overload his schedule with all this other work at the Academy.”
I rinse the glass, though we’d corked the bottle of wine we opened to save it for another time. “Maybe there was an issue at school.”
“And his phone doesn’t work?” Jared’s jaw tightens. “One text, Em. That’s all it would take.”
“It would look bad to be caught texting during a meeting,” I say, the excuse sounding empty.
Jared sighs. “You always defend him.”
I turn off the water. “He’s trying.”
Jared’s pheromones shift to bitter brine. “Is he, though?”
The table still holds evidence of our hopeful planning, with the third chair pulled out, candles burned to nubs, and the bread basket empty except for crumbs.
I dry my hands and cross to the table where the maroon cloth napkin I set out for Leif lies untouched. I chose it for its color, a mauve echo of his hair, shifting between pink and brown depending on the light.
I lift the napkin with care to preserve its creases. “He’s just not very good at this yet.”
“At what? Basic courtesy?” Jared says, soften despite his harsh words. “You deserve better, Em.”
I fold the napkin into a perfect square and place it in the drawer, tucking away my disappointment with it. “He’ll explain tomorrow.”
Jared tracks my movements, and when I turn back to the sink, he approaches from behind, his steps quiet. Heat radiates from his tall frame as he stops close enough to surround me in his presence without touching.
“Em,” he says, my name on his lips a question and an offering.
I grip the edge of the counter. “I keep telling myself there’s a good explanation.”
His hands find my waist, warm through the fabric of the silk blouse I put on for tonight. The physical contact grounds me as the disappointment threatens to pull me under.
“Maybe there is,” he offers, but his lack of conviction reveals his true thoughts.
I shake my head. “He keeps doing this.”
Jared’s fingers tighten on my waist. “He does.”
The night turns the kitchen window into a mirror, reflecting our silhouettes back at us. My silver hair catches the golden lightof the kitchen lamps. Jared’s tall frame is behind mine, steady as always. The empty space where a third person should stand.
“He should have called,” I whisper. “He should have texted before nine.”
Jared’s chin comes to rest on my shoulder, his chest expanding against my back as he breathes in. “Yes, heshouldhave.”
Silence settles between us as I lean back into his solid warmth.
“The bread would have been perfect if he’d made it on time,” I murmur, grief for small, stupid things threatening to choke me. “I timed it perfectly.”
Jared’s arms slide around my middle, hugging me to him. “You did. You always do.”
The simple acknowledgment of effort tightens my throat. I close my eyes and let my head rest back on his shoulder, inhaling the salt air and driftwood clinging to his skin.
“I’m not angry,” I tell him, needing the words spoken aloud. “I’m…”