Page 25 of Isolation

“Daddy, look, I got all the words right!”

Mateo’s attention was entirely on our son, and his face softened. He took the test and examined it.

“Look at that. Not a single mistake. Do you know what that calls for?”

Mason’s eyes widened. “Ice cream?”

“Exactly. You read my mind as long as it’s cool with Mommy. We have a spelling bee champ to celebrate.”

“Of course.” I nodded.

Minutes later, we settled at the table, and Mateo served Mason first, cutting his pasta into small bites and adding the extra cheese on top how Mason liked it. Then he moved to me curtly before fixing his own plate.

He acted like a perfect father, husband, thoughtful, present, and attentive. So, why did it feel like I was sitting with a stranger?

Conversation flowed easily enough with Mason dominating the topics while Mateo and I encouraged him and made the noises of approval. However, I cataloged Mateo and the number of times he glanced at his phone, especially when a laugh came out a beat too late after Mason told a joke. The way his eyes flickered at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. What did he think I knew? What was there to know? Mason slurped the last of his pasta, and Mateo reached for my hand across the table. His thumb brushed over my knuckles. I used to find that comforting, but now it made my skin crawl.

“I’ve been thinking maybe we should take a trip soon. You know? To get away for a while.”

Get away from what? That was what I wanted to say, but I swallowed it down. “That sounds nice. Where were you thinking?” I asked.

“Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we can be together with no distractions. I think we could use a break, don’t you?” Mateo asked.

My wine glass trembled slightly as I lifted it to my mouth. “Sure, a break sounds good.”

Still, all I could think was he wanted to get me somewhere isolated, and I couldn’t help but wonder why.

After dinner, Mason was sprawled on the living room floor with his dinosaurs while Mateo and I cleaned the kitchen. We moved around each other awkwardly when we were usually in sync with each other. He wiped the counters, and I loaded the dishwasher while ESPN played, filling the silence between us. Then the commentator was interrupted with a breaking news flash.

“We have an update on former collegiate star, DeAndre Pearson, who fell and ended up in a coma more than eight weeks ago. The doctors reported that Pearson has shown signs ofregaining consciousness in a development they call encouraging. His family has released a statement?—”

Shattering glass made me jump. Mateo stood frozen. The wine glass he was drying was now at his feet.

“Mateo?” I stepped toward him, but he didn’t seem to hear me. His eyes were locked on the TV, where they were showing previous footage of DeAndre, healthy and smiling from last season.

“Pearson’s family is deeply concerned about the circumstances?—”

“Turn it off,” Mateo ordered.

I reached for the remote on the counter. “What?—”

“I said, turn it off!” His shouting made me flinch as I stabbed the power button on the remote.

Mason peeked around the corner at us with his eyes wide.

“It’s okay, baby. Daddy had an accident with a glass. Stay over there so you don’t get cut.”

Mateo hadn’t moved. He was staring at his hands.

“Mateo, what’s going on?” I asked again but kept my distance.

He looked at me, and I swore I didn’t recognize the man behind his eyes. Then he blinked and was my husband again, but he was different—like something was broken.

“I gotta go,” he said, moving to the front door.

“Go where at seven o’clock?”

“I forgot something at the practice facility. I’ll be back later.”

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