Page 10 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
He sounded a little nervous, but there’s no way he could know that the words were hitting me harder than he probably intended. Because all at once, the contrast was sharp: this man—this colleague—noticed the details my husband didn’t. He paid attention. He remembered. He saw me.
I blinked quickly again, trying to pull back the tears that I felt coming. I closed the cover before my face gave too much away. "It’s… wow. It’s incredible. Thank you, but it’s too much, Ethan."
He shrugged, but his eyes held more weight than his tone. "You’re welcome, and it isn’t too much. It’s a big birthday."
I sniffed a bit and busied myself with sorting out the tissue paper, bag, and contents.
Then he asked: "Hey, is everything okay?"
"Of course," I said—too fast. I reached for the stack of files on my desk and straightened them like they needed organizing. "In other news, how’s house-hunting?"
He accepted the redirect without a fight. "I saw a three-bedroom yesterday with ceilings so low I could barely stand upright in the kitchen. Apparently, that’s a ‘historic feature.’"
We bantered a little, both of us pretending the energy between us hadn’t shifted with the opening of a book.
I gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks, Ethan. Really."
The rest of the day blurred. Meetings. Audits. A crisis-consult with a department head who thought yelling counted as leadership. Another who thought they could fire someone without consulting with HR first.
Normally, I thrived on cleaning up other people’s messes. But today, my mind kept drifting to the raw markings under mywedding ring from where I’d been twisting it the night before—trying to ground myself with every turn.
At noon, I escaped to the lobby café. Another coffee with an extra shot. Quiet corner. Emails.
One reminder notification popped up: Dining reservation for two: Antico Forno. 7 p.m.
My heart stuttered. Dammit—I'd forgotten about our dinner plans. Part of me wanted to see him try to make things right, to show up with that earnest look he gets when he's truly sorry. Another part wanted to cancel, to make him feel even a fraction of the disappointment I've been feeling. Would he try to turn it into some sort of apology? Guilt dinner? Or would we just pretend everything was fine, like we always did?
I tapped the screen to open it, but I didn’t delete it. I didn’t cancel either. I just…let it sit there. Like the recent state of our marriage.
"Hiya," Callie said as she slid into the seat across from me, setting down her quinoa breakfast bowl with its artful arrangement of kale, avocado slices, and what looked like pomegranate seeds scattered like tiny rubies across the top. The earthy scent of it made my nose wrinkle—gross. Give me the sugary comfort of maple syrup pooling around a stack of pancakes or the buttery embrace of a croissant any day.
"Hmmmm," I said, voice disinterested.
I checked my watch three times in two minutes, but Callie kept talking. Part of me wanted to snap at her to leave me alone, while another part craved the distraction from my thoughts. I nodded at something she said about her weekend plans, hating myself a little for the relief I felt when she finally glanced at her phone and mentioned our upcoming meeting.
I checked my watch one final time, relief flooding through me at the excuse to escape. "We should head back upstairs," I said, already gathering my things.
The day dragged, but I survived it.
By four-thirty, thunderclouds had littered the sky. I shut down my laptop and packed up slowly, dread rising inside me. The dinner reservation still blinked on my calendar like a countdown I couldn’t stop.
When I stepped out of my office, Ethan was waiting by the elevators, umbrella in hand. My stomach tightened—both pleased and unsettled to see him there.
"Heading out?" At my nod, he said, "Let me walk you down. Forecast says cats and dogs." While his joke fell flat, it still made me smile—hating how easily the gesture came, how I couldn't decide if I wanted him to leave me alone or stay exactly where he was.
We rode the elevator in silence. In the mirrored walls, our reflections stood side-by-side: his loose charm, my stiff shoulders. He spoke just before the doors opened. "You know, some people don’t see what’s right in front of them. That’s their loss."
His words landed like a stone in still water. I blinked. Had I been that transparent? "Thank you," I managed, the syllables sticking in my throat. For the book? For seeing me when I felt unseen?
He raised the umbrella over both of us and walked me around the building and to the garage where I’d parked my car. I slipped inside, smiled, and nodded my thanks. Pulling out of the garage, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw he was still standing there. Watching. Waiting.
My phone dinged, and CarPlay reminded me of the dinner reservation—should I go?
But the question felt bigger than that.
It wasn’t about dinner. It was about whether I still believed there was something left worth salvaging.
I didn’t know what to do.
