“Another one? You just got back two days ago.”
“It’s the Henderson account, babe. You know how important this is.”
I did know. Or at least, I thought I did. Mason worked in commercial real estate, and the Henderson account was supposedly his golden ticket to partnership. So I smiled and kissed him goodbye and spent another three nights alone in our bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why grief felt so much heavier when you carried it by yourself.
By the time two months had passed, Mason was barely home. When he was there, he was distant and distracted. He’d look at his phone and smile at something, then catch me watching, and the smile would disappear.
“Who’s texting you?” I asked once.
“Just work stuff,” he said, not meeting my eyes.
I wanted to push. I wanted to grab that phone and see for myself. But I was so tired and worn down by loss and loneliness that I just nodded and went back to staring at nothing.
My sister, Delaney, has always had a gift for making everything about her.
When I graduated from college, she announced her successful interview on the same day. When I got my first promotion, she showed up at the celebration dinner in a neck brace from a “car accident” that turned out to be a minor fender bender in a parking lot.
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