Page 84 of Six Month Wife
23
Adair
Of coursehe looks annoyingly good. Like some brooding coastal drama lead jogging into my emotional crisis with wind-tousled hair and that steady and infuriating focus.
Figures.
Parker is standing on the shoreline, the ocean barely catching the toes of his shoes. The almost completely set sun highlights him in gold.
It’s unfair, really, that he gets to look like that while my insides are still a war zone.
I suck in a breath quickly before I can stop it. Muscle memory, maybe. My body still hasn’t figured out we’re not doing that anymore. Or, that we’re done.
The last time I heard his voice, it was filtered through laughter and a nickname that didn’t belong to me, like some private joke I’ll never be in on. It twisted something in me I didn’t even know was still soft.
I start to turn around and leave before he sees me. The ache of pretending I don’t care invades my body. I stealone more glance at his broad shoulders, clinging to the thin t-shirt, before taking a step back.
And that’s when he turns.
Our eyes lock across the sand, and everything in me seizes. He sees me.
I give him a small wave. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to acknowledge that, yes, I see you too, and then I turn and start walking.
The sand is soft and quiet beneath my feet, but my heartbeat is deafening. I don’t look back. I don’t have to.
There’s no one else here to prove our marriage is real, no audience to perform for.
“Adair,” he yells behind me.
The sound carries on the wind, catching in the curl of my hair as it reaches me. It sounds like it’s been lodged in his throat for days, waiting for this moment.
I keep walking.
“Wait—please.”
A pause. Then footsteps—fast, heavy, digging into the sand as they close the distance.
“Adair, can we talk?”
I stop, but I don’t turn. My neck muscles tense, and my fingers curl into fists at my sides, tucked beneath the hem of my hoodie.
He's closer now, I can hear his steps, crunching softly in the damp sand behind me. He stops maybe three feet away. I can't not turn around at this point. I catch my breath and put on my best nonchalant face.
"Fancy seeing you here," I say as casually as I can muster.
“Hey,” he says.
“You heading out?”
"I've got to do some computer stuff at home. It's such abeautiful evening, I was having a hard time going. But I really should. Enjoy your run."
"I sent you a text, but I didn't hear back."
I laugh under my breath and try to hide the bitterness. “Oh, that smiley face emoji warranted a response? Sorry, I figured that was a butt-dial or something. We probably need to put some space between us. Now that the meeting is done, and all.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts his weight behind me. “I didn’t know what else to say.”
The wind lifts my hair and sticks it to my lip, and I brush it away like it’s his fault somehow.
