Chapter 5: Seven O'Clock
He arrived at six fifty-eight.
I heard his key in the lock, the familiar sound of it, and I stayed in the kitchen where I was standing with a glass of water, not wine, because I wanted to be completely clear for this conversation.
Marcus came into the kitchen and stopped when he saw my face.
"Sit down," I said.
He sat at the island.
He was still in his work clothes.
He looked tired in a way that might have made me reach for his hand a year ago.
"I know you called Serena last night," I said.
The color shifted in his face.
Not dramatically.
Just slightly, the way a light changes when a cloud passes.
"Diane—"
"I'm not asking if you did.
I know you did.
I want to know why."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I was upset.
I wasn't thinking clearly."
"You called your ex-fiancée to tell her that I had shown my true colors."
"I didn't say it like that—"
"That's the exact phrase you used."
His jaw tightened.
"How do you know what I said?"
"Because Serena's sister contacted me last night.
After you called." I set my glass down.
"How long have you been in contact with her?"
"It's not what you think."
"I haven't told you what I think yet.
How long?"
He looked at the counter.
"On and off.
A few times a year."
"Does she know you're married?"
"Of course she knows I'm married."
"Does she know anything about our life?
Our finances?
Our arguments?"
He didn't answer immediately.
That was its own answer.
"Marcus."
"I haven't told her anything private."
"You called her the night your wife asked your mother to leave her own restaurant and told her your wife had shown her true colors.
That is private.
That is ours.
And you gave it to her."
---
He stood up.
Not aggressively — just restless, the way he got when a conversation was going somewhere he didn't want to follow.
"My mother was humiliated," he said.
"Your mother humiliated me at that table.
In front of staff I employ.
In a room I own."
"She was making conversation—"
"She told you I had never cooked a proper meal for you.
She said good men choose women who know how to keep a home.
She said she was only saying what everyone was already thinking." I looked at him steadily.
"Which of those is conversation?"
He pressed his hand to the back of his neck.
"She doesn't mean it the way it sounds."
"You have said that to me for four years.
I have believed you for four years.
I don't believe it anymore."
"So what — you're done?
You're just done?"
"I'm done pretending I didn't hear what I heard.
I'm done pretending last night didn't happen.
And I am done," I said, "being the only person in this marriage who is expected to absorb everything quietly."
He turned back to face me.
His expression had changed.
Something harder underneath now.
"You want to talk about what's expected?
You never included me in Bellini's.
Not once.
I found out you owned a restaurant the same way my mother did — in public, as a punchline."
The room was very still.
"I kept my professional life separate because every time I mentioned it, your mother found a way to diminish it.
I protected my work from her.
I didn't hide it from you."
"It felt the same."
"Then you should have said so.
Four years ago.
Two years ago.
Last year." I looked at him.
"Did you ever say so?"
He didn't answer.
"I asked you directly, twice, whether my work bothered you.
You said no both times."
"I know what I said."
"Then we have a different problem than the one you came here to talk about."
He stood there for a long moment.
Then he picked up his keys from the counter.
"I need some air," he said.
"Marcus." My voice was quiet.
"If you walk out that door tonight without finishing this conversation, I will take that as your answer."
He stopped with his hand on the door frame.
May you like
He didn't turn around.
And then he walked out.
