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I could have gone to Este’s. I probably should have.

But I was too ashamed of how Will had acted.

Too disappointed by how bad the fight had gotten to let Este know.

If I told Este, she might never forgive Will.

Even in my shock and anger, I was protecting him.

I didn’t know what to make of that. Was I weak?

Was I pathetic? I was starting to feel like both were true, so, yeah… I didn’t go to Este’s.

There was also a part of me that knew if I told Este, I might actually have to do something about Will’s outburst. Este would never let Beau get away with something like that. She’d key his car and then leave the divorce papers on his windshield.

All I wanted to do was forget the whole thing ever happened. I wanted to erase it. I wanted to rewind time and take the whole fight back.

A few minutes after Will locked himself in his office, I walked out of the house, leaving the bourbon and shards of glass scattered on the floor.

I felt like I was fleeing the scene of a crime, but I didn’t go far.

I got in my car and started driving. And no matter how many times I thought about driving straight home, I found myself making a few turns and basically just circling the city, crying.

By eleven, I had expected or maybe just hoped that Will would call.

But he hadn’t, and I still didn’t want to go home.

To make matters worse, a storm had moved in and decided to sit right on top of the city with fat, splashing drops of rain that fell so fast I could barely see between swipes of my windshield wipers.

It got so bad that I didn’t spot the knocked-over cone alerting drivers to the pothole in the road, and as my tire hit it, I knew I’d blown it.

I pulled over and put my head on the steering wheel, letting the tears fall.

Suddenly, the storm picked up enough that I started feeling like I needed to get off the road. I wiped my eyes, trying to focus on my phone screen, giving up a few times as I tilted my head up and let the tears stream down the sides of my face. Finally, I managed to type:

11:13 p.m.

I blew a tire. Can you come get me?

Ten minutes later, Marcus rolled up and got out of his car with a large golf umbrella.

“There’s no way we’ll be able to get this changed right now,” he said. “The storm is supposed to pass in a while. We’ll come back. We can go to my house, I’m just down the way.”

I probably should’ve argued that. But I was spent and so soaked to the bone that his house sounded like the perfect place to wait for the rain to let up.

—

He lived in a dark blue bungalow behind Trismen Park. The earthy smell of the rain and a sticky humidity washed over me when Marcus helped me out of his car and under the umbrella. We hurried through his front door as a few pops of lightning lit up the sky.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, acutely aware of the scene that I was causing. It was after eleven o’clock at night and I was in Marcus’s living room with puffy eyes and a rain-soaked designer dress. And I couldn’t go home because my husband threw a glass at me. Near me? What even was that?

Welcome to rock bottom, Nora.

His place had an open-concept layout, so I could see through to the kitchen, outfitted with everything a chef could want, including an island large enough to fit six stools for entertaining.

The space was like his restaurant—warm, cozy, with touches of a bohemian influence that reminded me of the beach.

From the slouchy linen sectional couch where we sat, I could see white lights strung over a swimming pool in his backyard, and beyond the pool, there was a little greenhouse with surfboards racked against one wall.

Marcus looked me over carefully like he wasn’t sure what to make of my late-night appearance, but he didn’t ask about it. He just handed me a napkin and I did my best to clean up my eye makeup without a mirror.

“Can I make you some tea? You want a glass of wine?” he offered.

“Tea would be nice,” I said in a voice that sounded as small and defeated as I felt. The truth was I was starving. I had been so wrapped up in cooking that I had forgotten to eat lunch, and of course I never made it to dinner. Maybe the hot water would take the edge off my hunger pangs.

He headed for the kitchen, and I stood up to follow him.

My eye caught a gallery wall of photos in the corner of the living room.

Candid snapshots from different chapters of his life.

I took in the pictures as he held the gas stove control knob and it let out that familiar click, click, click to ignite under a teakettle.

It’s weird, trying to piece together someone’s history through a series of photos, but as I looked over the wall, I told myself stories from the framed scenes.

Marcus had backpacked through Europe, scuba-dived around coral reefs, and surfed in Australia.

He had jumped off the back of a sailboat somewhere that looked a lot like Greece.

He had loved a black Lab and his parents.

There were friends or siblings—I couldn’t tell which—who had accompanied him on all of these adventures.

He lived life with open arms and a friendly smile, and I felt a selfish twinge of jealousy for how light and cheerful it all seemed to be.

This is how life turns out for people with stable suburban parents. They get a zillion options and even a few do-overs, because they always know they will have a safe place to land if things go sideways.

“You okay, Nora?” Marcus asked as he looked over from the stove.

Considering I was so clearly not okay, I understood there was no point in downplaying the situation.

“Will and I got into a fight,” I admitted. “I just need some space.”

Concern shaded Marcus’s face. “What happened?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Everything. Death by a thousand cuts.”

As I said it, I pictured a slowly assembled unlit pile of kindling.

Every few days, Will would be late or inconsiderate.

Or he’d give another nonanswer or allude to some stress I couldn’t possibly understand.

And I’d gather my hurt feelings into a little pile, like stacking up twigs for a fire.

Tonight, we’d tossed a lit match into my careful collection of sticks—my pile of swallowed feelings and repressed loneliness—and they’d ignited like a bonfire.

“It was bad,” I said. “We were both shouting, and Will threw a glass. And I feel so stupid for how out of hand it got. I feel so stupid for coming over here and bothering you. But I didn’t want Este to know.”

There was so much more I wanted to say, but I didn’t because it wasn’t Marcus’s problem to solve. And I think deep down I knew that Will would be mad that I was airing our dirty laundry. And the more I turned it all over in my mind, the more I spiraled.

Am I stupid for getting married so fast? For thinking I could just live in a world like this—Will’s world? “Just add a rich husband” for a fantasy life.

“Nora, did I lose you?”

I snapped out of it to see Marcus looking at me quizzically.

“Sorry.”

“No need to be. Hungry?”

“Starving.”

He pulled things out of the refrigerator like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. I sat down on a nearby stool. Even as I watched him get to work, my mind was reeling.

I didn’t think I regretted the marriage, and I didn’t think I wanted to leave Will.

There was so much about our life that was good.

I liked the protection living in his world offered, even if it came with the stigma of being his young wife.

I loved him. But I hated feeling like a burden to him, and the way he looked at me—like I was just a na?ve kid—made me wonder if he was having regrets.

The teakettle whistled, and we both looked at it. Marcus turned the burner down and started to assemble a mug with raw honey and a chamomile tea bag.

“Here.” He offered me the mug, and my hands were warmed just by holding it.

Then, he pulled something out from the broiler and put a plate of food in front of me.

It looked like cold cuts on toast, but after my first bite, I realized it was heaven on a plate.

Some perfect, toasty grilled cheese comfort food thing that I devoured.

“I like your place. It’s just like you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Warm, down to earth, a little arty.”

“Your deflections come with a side of compliments tonight, I see.” I could tell he meant it as a joke, but his eyes were pulled down a little in concern. “We can talk about the fight.”

“I’d rather not.”

He walked back to the living room and took a seat on the couch. I sat down on the other side. I’m not sure why, but I put an oversize pillow between us.

“What are you going to do about it?” he asked.

“The fight?” I shook my head. “I don’t know. I just want to undo it. I want it to have never happened. But it did. I walked out of the house hours ago. I thought he would call, you know? I keep thinking he’s going to fight for me. To do something to try to keep me…But he won’t.”

As I said the words, the lightbulb went off in my head—the realization was as clear as day.

Will isn’t going to fight for me. He doesn’t like to fight anyone. He doesn’t like to fight.

When Constance stole all his wine or burst into his house to yell at me, he didn’t want to confront her about it. And when Fritz made a scene, Will just shook his head. The biggest reaction I’d ever seen from him was tonight, when I goaded him into a fight he didn’t want to have.

“Everyone deserves someone who will fight for them,” Marcus said softly, and there was a hint of regret in his voice.

“Well, I might be out of luck.”

“Have you tried telling him that’s what you need?”

“I asked about counseling. I told him I was lonely. He shut it all down.”