Page 157 of The Havenport Collection

Josh

I walked into the kitchen, flicking on the lights as I went, and tossed my keys onto the counter.

It was late, way later than I’d realized.

My shift had ended at four, but I had volunteered to stay on a bit later to follow up on a couple of cases, then I’d grabbed a much-needed beer with a couple of the guys after.

The emergency room could take a lot out of a person, and sometimes I needed to blow off a little steam before heading home.

Granted, we usually talked shop, and it was a great opportunity to spend quality time with my attending and show him how dedicated I was, so it wasn’t totally selfish. At least that was what I told myself.

I walked through the open-plan kitchen toward the lit-up dining room and peered inside.

The table was set for two with our wedding china, a fancy tablecloth, and an artful arrangement of unlit candles.

A bottle of champagne sat, unopened, next to a pair of crystal flutes that had belonged to my mom. On my chair was a card and a small box.

Fuck. I checked my watch. It was the twelfth. Our anniversary. Maggie had gone to a lot of trouble and I’d forgotten. Had gone for a beer instead of coming home. I was a shit husband.

I sank down into the upholstered chair and opened the card. In typical Maggie fashion, it was heartfelt and funny at the same time.

Josh,

Happy 10 th anniversary! I love you more and more every year.

The Internet says the traditional gift for 10 years is tin, which is random, but it’s supposed to represent the strength and resiliency of our marriage.

So I got this little something for you. Maybe after we finish dinner you can play me our song?

Endless love,

Maggie

I buried my head in my hands. It was our ten-year anniversary?

And I hadn’t even bothered to remember. Things had been so busy at the hospital with my recent promotion that I had to put family stuff on autopilot.

Maggie had always been good at reminding me about this stuff.

She would send me texts about family occasions and birthdays and always had cards for me to sign and gifts for me to give.

She handled all the operations, the logistics, and the strategy, which gave me the opportunity to just get up and focus on work.

I pried the lid off the small box and found a tin guitar pick.

It was engraved with I’m glad you picked me and our wedding date.

I clutched it in my fist, racking my brain for a memory of the last time I’d played my guitar.

It was gathering dust in the basement right now.

My dad had taught me to play, and when I was growing up, we would jam together.

We were two stoic men mourning the loss of my mom, but we’d always been able to communicate our emotions through music.

It was my favorite way to blow off steam, and Maggie knew me well enough to give me this, to remind me of who I used to be, of what we used to be.

I was the guy who would play and sing to her pregnant belly and make up silly songs to make my kids laugh.

Once in a while, I would drag it out and sing to my wife, which, come to think of it, usually worked out well for me after the kids went to bed.

A tidal wave of shame washed over me. I had to fix this. I had to apologize, grovel, make sure Maggie knew how I felt about her. Maggie was probably still awake upstairs, so I’d have to go up and face the music.

I took a moment to collect myself, contemplating whether I should grab my guitar to aid me in my grand apology, when my phone beeped.

There was an issue with one of my patients, and they needed me to consult. I’d have to call the on-call physician before I could talk to Maggie.

But maybe it would be better to head back to the hospital and talk to Maggie tomorrow.

I didn’t need to go back in, but it might be the right move.

It would give her some time to cool off and allow me some time to think.

I could head back, check in on my patients, and then sleep in an on-call room.

That way we could avoid a messy confrontation and hurt feelings.

Then, if I was lucky, it would all blow over by tomorrow.

I’d make sure to leave on time and be home for dinner. Yes, that was a perfect idea.

I put the champagne back in the refrigerator and turned off the lights, all the while feeling pulled toward Maggie.

If I went upstairs, I could bury my face in her hair and beg for forgiveness.

I had been a shit husband lately. But it was just a blip.

Things would calm down soon, then I could focus on her, on us.

I would make it up to her. But first I had to head back to work.