“He didn’t say.” She places the stopper back in the wine bottle for the second night in a row.
My fist curls at my side. “This isn’t okay, Em.”
“He’s busy.”
“He’s disrespectful.”
Emily doesn’t answer, and the silence between us thickens with unspoken accusations, not at each other, but at the man whose presence has faded into memory.
I cross to the table where she stands. “You can’t keep defending him.”
Unshed tears shine in Emily’s eyes. “He’s trying his best.”
“Is he?”
Her throat works as she swallows. The candles flicker between us, casting amber light across the fatigue etched into her strong features. She’s lost weight over the past month, not much, but enough that I notice the sharper angle of her collarbones beneath her silk blouse.
She turns away, carrying Leif’s empty plate back to the kitchen. I follow, watching as she moves the stew pot off the burner to allow it to cool.
“This pattern is becoming too familiar,” I say to her back.
Her movements pause for a fraction of a second before she continues, shoulders stiffening. “Leif isn’t Auren.”
“No. But your response to him is becoming the same.”
She turns to me, burning with a mixture of anger and pain that knots low in my sternum. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” My hands ball into fists. “What about this situation is fair to you, Em? You spend hours cooking meals he never shows up to eat. You rearrange your schedule when he says he’s coming, then wait by the phone when he doesn’t.”
“He has responsibilities.”
“So do we. To each other.” I step closer, bridging the gap between us. “I can’t stand seeing you so unhappy.”
Emily’s eyes drop to the floor.
“Last month, he swore to communicate better,” I remind her, furious that after I confronted him at the cafe, he pulled this shit again. “He swore to respect your time.”
“His job is demanding.”
“Stop defending him!” The words burst out louder than intended, and Emily flinches. I draw a deep breath to steady myself. “Every time he does this, you find a reason why it’s acceptable. Why it’s different from what Auren put you through. But it’s not acceptable. No excuse justifies hurting you. Last night, you agreed to stop this if he didn’t show again.”
“I want to believe in him,” Emily says, gripping the counter behind her. “I want to trust that there’s a reason.”
“There probably is,” I concede, running a hand through my hair. “But he’s decided we don’t deserve to know what it is.”
Emily pushes away from the counter, moving back to the dining table. With methodical movements, she begins extinguishing the candles, pinching the hot wicks between her fingers without flinching at the pain. One by one, the flames die, plunging the room into deeper shadow.
“He texted this time,” she says, as if this represents progress worth noting.
“After we’d already been waiting an hour.”
She doesn’t argue as she puts away the nice dinner she worked so hard to make. She starts to fill the sink with soapy water, staring into it for a long time before she shuts the water off and steps away, leaving the kitchen a mess.
I watch as she drifts into the living room, where the fire I built earlier still crackles in the hearth. Without turning on the lamps, she curls into the corner of the couch, drawing her knees to her chest, shrinking into herself.
The protective fury I’ve been tamping down all evening rises again. My fingers clench and unclench at my sides as I stare out the window, where snow begins to fall in small flakes that vanish upon touching the ground.
Emily remains motionless on the couch, every inch of her posture shouting exhaustion. Not the physical tiredness thatcomes from a day of hard work, but the bone-deep weariness of emotional labor with no return.