Page 89 of What You left in Me

“God help us,” she says, fond on autopilot. Then she looks at me. Not through me. At me. It’s quick, clinical, like she’s taking a reading. “You slept?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She glances at her phone. The lock screen glows. She turns it facedown. “I’ll be in the office if either of you needs me.”

“Wait,” I say, because I am brave before coffee and incredibly dumb after it. “Do you… do you want to sit a while? With us?”

For a second her composure glints like glass. “I can’t. I have things to…”

“Of course,” I say too fast. “Later.”

She nods and drifts away. I watch her go and feel that now-familiar pinch of wrongness. A week ago, I would have said she was simply stressed. Now, the silence around her feels… different. It has to be about Waren. The man won’t leave my head. She’s changed ever since he appeared.

“Don’t worry at the problem,” Richard mutters, eyes on the page. “You’ll rub it raw.”

“I’m not worrying,” I lie.

“You’re always worrying. It’s your best hobby.” He turns a page. “Also, the koi filter hum is a crime.”

“I’ll put it on trial.”

“Good.”

The day advances. I do chores like I’m starring in a very polite dream. I ferry laundry and measure pills and read the same paragraph of a book three times without retaining a single noun. I wipe a nonexistent spill on the counter because moving my hands makes my brain stop replaying last night for three whole seconds. I check my phone and then pretend I wasn’t checking it. There’s nothing from Julian (Hallelujah!) and nothing from Finn, whom I don’t see all day. Neither do I have the courage to go and check.

In the afternoon, I take a walk down to the dock under the guise of getting fresh air and manage to rate every rock along the path on a scale of “could this trip me if I’m not looking” (answer:all of them). The lake does its lake thing: glimmer, pretend to be benign, hold a thousand secrets. Somewhere a heron lifts off and rearranges the sky.

I sit on the dock and dangle my feet, letting the anklet be unveiled beneath the cuff of my jeans as if to say,Hi, we’re still here, remember? As if I could forget. I press my thumb to it through denim and feel that same rushed heat… fear braided with relief. It should feel like a cage. It doesn’t. It feels like: he came back. He wants me where he can find me. He wants me, period.

A rational person would probably be alarmed by how much that matters. I’m not in the mood to be rational. I’m in the mood to sit with my toes over dark water and imagine what I’ll say when I see him again. The versions range from heroic to mortifying. Version A: “You left.” Version B: “You’re late.” Version C: nothing at all because my mouth forgets language and we make terrible choices again. I try to pick the one that won’t get me smote by lightning. I fail.

Back up at the house, I try to pitch in and help Maria move a table—because I need to stay busy before I lose what’s left of my mind—and she glares me into not doing it. I text Penny a photo of the hydrangeas and she sends back seventeen heart-eye emojis and then:How’s your dad? And how are YOU?I typefineand then delete it because it’s such a liar. I typecomplicatedand leave it there because that covers most things.

By late afternoon, the light goes honey-soft and the house smells like rosemary and roast chicken because Maria believes in morale. I fight and win her letting me set the table. Not the good china… Mom would have a coronary, but the nice everyday plates that reassure us that everything’s back to normal. When I go to the sideboard for napkins, my pulse wobbles because my ankle brushes the cabinet door and that tiny contact lightsup every nerve like a string of fairy lights.Okay. This is getting ridiculous.

Dinner gathers itself slowly and Finn finally appears. My make eye contact for a brief second before Maria distract me with her fussing. Richard shuffles in on Finn’s arm, my breath hitching for the slightest, stupidest moment and then righting like a boat after a small wave. He looks like he didn’t sleep and also like he could bench-press a moral dilemma. He sets Richard down, adjusts the chair, nods at me. Not a word. His eyes catch mine for another beat. There’s a whole conversation in the small quirk at the corner of his mouth and the way his gaze drops to my ankle and back. I force my face to do nothing at all.

From the inside, I’m ablaze.

Eleanor arrives last, composed, pearls calm, expression neutral enough to qualify as Switzerland. “Smells lovely,” she says. “Thank you, Maria.”

Maria says, “I’m off-duty for the next hour. If you need anything, feel free to call me.”

We finally, eat. Richard pronounces the chicken “sincerely seasoned,” which I think means good. Eleanor tells us the gallery’s suppliers sent the wrong mat board, which is the kind of tragedy only six people in the tri-state area can appreciate. Finn cuts his food like it once insulted him. I talk too much because silence makes me itch.

“How was your day?” I ask Finn. Basic and safe.Nothing to see here.

He doesn’t answer right away. His lips fight a tiny smile. He finally says, “Productive,” in the tone that meansdo not ask me what I produced.Mom’s fork pauses mid-air, then resumes. Richard watches all of us like there’s a painting he’s trying to decode and the artist is laughing.

“Richard shouldn’t be at his desk yet,” Mom says, gentle but pointed. “He gets agitated when…”

“I’ll decide what my father’s ready for,” Finn says, evenly, without looking up. The words are a knife laid flat on the tablecloth.

Eleanor’s eyes flash. She smiles anyway, small and pale. “He’s my husband.”

“He’s my father first.” Finn declares, pushing back uncharacteristically.

What’s happening? He’s never acted this way before. He’s always been grateful for not being the one making the decisions.