Page 1 of Give Me Strength

PROLOGUE

GILBERT

I stand by the bathroom door, leaning against the frame with my arms crossed loosely over my chest. I watch Rachel move around the room, methodically packing her things and mine into the suitcases on the bed.

The late afternoon sunlight filters through the sheer curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over everything, making the moment feel almost surreal.

I can’t shake this hunch that this is the last time we will do this. Nor can I shake the nagging feeling that I want this to be the last time we do this.

After all, she has sacrificed so much to keep this charade of ours going. If anyone deserves to be happy, truly happy, it’s her.

“You don’t have to pack for me,” I tell her. “I’m a big boy.”

“Nonsense, it’s the least I can do.” She waves me off. “Besides, I won’t be able to drop you off at the airport this time.”

We do this dance every time. She packs, and I stay out of her way.

She’s also taking several of her students to a dance competition this weekend, a commitment she regularly fulfills. I would never ask her to prioritize me over her career. I deeply respect and admire her dedication and success in her career.

“We have a car service,” I remind her. “They offer long-distance driving options for us.”

“No, thanks,” she chuckles. “In case you haven’t noticed, I go out of my way to downplay all this.” She gestures at the bedroom, but I know she means our home in general. “The last thing I want is for our families to attempt to weasel their way back into our lives for your money.”

“Our money,” I am quick to correct.

It’s just like her to downplay her abilities. Between a full-time teaching job at Brookfield Performing Arts Academy, a lucrative online choreography business, and many smart investments, she makes some serious bank.

As do I.

Officially and on paper, I am a psychiatrist. My practice, Aspen Grove Psychiatry, is self-sufficient at this time. Unofficially, I work with the CIA in training and counseling operatives worldwide. As an independent contractor, I have the freedom to take on short-term and long-term contracts overseas. As far as anyone is concerned, those trips are with Doctors Without Borders. Random and unpredictable is how it goes.

“How long will you be gone this time?” she asks as she fluffs a tulle skirt.

“A few months,” I tell her.

She never asks me for details or specifics about my assignments because the answer remains the same each time: It’s classified.

What a thing to say to one’s wife.

Truth be told, I have no idea how long this contract is supposed to last. A few months could mean three months or ten. Or years.

But that’s just the thing. Rachel and I aren’t a typical husband-and-wife duo. Our marriage is and has always been anything but normal, but it works for us. We are best friends who lead separate lives and are married on paper.

That, and we both went into this knowing that if either of us wanted out, at any time, all they had to do was say the words I want a divorce.

I have no reason to say it, but she does.

Hence the hunch.

But I don’t say that out loud. I understand that she needs to do this on her terms, not mine. Her independence and autonomy are important to her, and I respect that.

“If I…” Rachel trails off, eyes downcast as her fingers curl around a pair of ballet slippers.

“What is it?”

“If I need to get papers to you, how do I do that?”

My mind travels a thousand miles a minute. “You’re really doing it?” I ask her, my voice more hopeful than I have in a long time.

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