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Dinah

Friday afternoon, we drive to the ranch, our hands intertwined on the Excursion’s wide center console.

I’ve spent all week looking forward to this one-on-one time with him to regroup and make sure that everything is as it should be.

Now, with my confession hanging over my head, it feels more like a prison sentence.

Joe has Dave Matthews on the radio, and I try to relax.

He’s such a great driver. One hand on the steering wheel, the other in mine, his body relaxed but his attention constantly ticking through and checking the different items: the mirrors, the different lanes, the speedometer, the temperature gauges, the oncoming traffic.

He doesn’t speed, doesn’t get perturbed by other drivers or traffic, and uses his turn signal.

The ranch is only twenty minutes away, but he spends every Friday morning checking the air in the tires, topping off all fluids, and filling the tank up with gas.

This morning, while he did that, I fixed us each a thermos filled with coffee and dressed for a hike, lacing up my boots with a stomach full of trepidation and guilt.

This weekend, I have to tell him. The sooner, the better.

But I don’t—not right away. Instead, I melt into the passenger seat, my fingers interlaced with his, and listen to Dave croon as we leave the city and enter the suburbs, then the open desert.

We purchased the ranch because of its proximity to the city.

Far enough out for serious acreage, but close enough if I get called in on a case or Joe needs to run to the clinic in between classes.

I love our routines, especially our visits to the land.

Joe says I need it after the chaos of my childhood, which was very much a “figure it out as we go” mindset, where plans were made and discarded on the fly and RSVPs always had a question mark at the end, in case something better came up or we forgot.

Sal loved the calamity; I hated it. I liked my pens and papers in order, my desk calendar to be accurate, and if a commitment was made, it was kept.

Take a homecoming date, for instance. If someone mentioned that they would take you, then they should.

They shouldn’t take your sister, shouldn’t force you to hide your dress and your expectations in the back of the closet and pretend they didn’t exist.

“Your family still coming next month?” Joe’s question is a welcome interruption, and I shift in my seat so that I can face him.

Next month. By then, the IA investigation should be done, and Jessica will likely be released. I shake off the thought and answer his question. “I don’t know. You know them. Mom says definitely yes, which means it’s fifty-fifty. I know you said it’s okay, but—”

“It’s fine. The guest cottage is ready; they’ll have a nice time.”

I digest the idea, one I’m not entirely comfortable with, but if Joe is, that’s all that matters.

He’s right: the guest cottage is ready. I’ll need to air it out a little.

Fluff the beds. Stock the fridge. Take that ugly hat rack that Oley carved for us and move it into the main house, just to make sure it doesn’t get damaged.

Oley gave us the rack a month before he passed.

It’s one of the best—and worst—gifts I’ve ever received.

After his death, I moved it into the guest cottage.

I had to. Every time I saw it, I was struck with my last memories of him, his big body barely fitting into the hospital bed, his smile still wide, his jokes still pouring out of him even while his heart beat its final notes.

Maybe now I can look at it without crying. Maybe I can ignore our badge numbers, which he carved into the bottom. Maybe all that will be easier since I now know that he was a traitorous asshole.

“You okay?” Joe brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses my fingers, right by my wedding band.

“Yeah.” I smile, but I know he can see the sadness in my eyes. “Just thinking about Oley.”

“I could grill a tenderloin next weekend, if I place the order with the butcher tomorrow. We could do the same when your family visits.”

The abrupt change in topic is a familiar tactic he uses with his patients—the reprogramming of your mind away from a painful or harmful thought. I appreciate it, and I let my mind tick over to all the things we need to do to prepare for our upcoming guests.

Mom has been trying to visit the ranch ever since we bought it. We typically beg off visitors, blaming the hunters that lease the ten thousand acres of forest around it. But with the guest cabin done, I finally caved after six years of resistance.

“I wish she wasn’t bringing Marci.” I turn my air vents off.

“You act surprised that she is. You know Marci’s her favorite.”

It’s the truth, but I wish he wouldn’t say that.

It would be nice for my husband to at least pretend that my sister and I are on even footing in this one remaining aspect of our competition.

I should be winning in any competition with my mother as judge.

After all, we don’t borrow money from her.

We take her on trips, invite her to dinner at our homes, and create moments like this upcoming visit—one where she won’t have to lift a finger and will enjoy all the comforts of home, thanks to the extensive and expensive renovation we just completed, all with her in mind.

“The bigger question is, is Marci bringing Eric?” Joe squeezes my hand and then disentangles himself, and it takes me a moment to realize that he wants me to let go. I do, and my hand immediately feels small and insignificant as a result.

“Marci isn’t bringing Eric. He has to work.” Thank God. The only thing worse than dealing with my mother and Marci for a weekend is to have them both preening over Eric and listening to him try to keep up a conversation with Joe.

“Okay, so they’ll be fine, just the two of them in the cabin. Not too crowded.” He doesn’t comment on Eric’s absence, but I know he’s happy he won’t be there.

“A tenderloin would be nice.” I reach down into the floorboard and fish out a clip from my purse. I stick it in my mouth and twist my hair into a messy bun, then use the clip to secure it in place. “We could play Scrabble one night. Mom would like that.”

“Sure. I’ll keep an eye on the weather, but it should be nice.” He glances at me. “You’re nervous about something. Is it the ranch?”

I shift in my seat. “I mean, partly. Marci is always looking for something to be wrong, something she can jump on and pick apart. I don’t even like the idea of her coming on the property, much less exploring—” I break off at the thought of my nosy sister peeking in our bedroom, of the look on her face when she sees our separate beds, the “his and her” division of the room.

“I don’t want them in our house, like at all. ”

“Well, that’s why we built the guest cabin,” he says. “So we could have our own space. They’re two grown women; they understand our need for privacy.” He gives me a crooked smile, as if we will be rocking the bedposts and don’t want my family listening in.

But the truth is, it doesn’t matter if Mom and Marci are in the guest cabin or the bedroom adjacent to ours.

Joe and I aren’t that kind of couple. What we have goes so much deeper than the crude connection of sex.

Granted, maybe it could be even deeper if we ever introduced that aspect into our marriage.

Maybe. I’ve always wondered if it would. If we could try—just once—and see.