Page 8 of Mine

I’m already out of my office and in the hallway when I stop and quickly turn to Natalie. “I’m sorry but I’m already late to meet my wife. Why don’t you come in at four tomorrow? We’ll go over the dinner menu before we open.”

I don’t allow enough time for Natalie to respond before I’m bolting out of the restaurant and to my car. I’m hoping to hell I don’t get stuck in traffic on my way home, imagining the look on Lena’s face when I walk in the door. Will she be disappointed? Will she be happy to see me? Will she look at me like she used to, like that night in the elevator after we stood in the rainstorm without a care, the same night we found the note in my apartment? Once I hit a red light, I take the opportunity to type out a quick message to Lena.

Me: I’m so sorry. Got stuck talking to a client. On my way. Love you.

My sentences are short and to the point. I’m frustrated for allowing myself to lose track of the time. As soon as I hit send, the traffic light flashes from red to green and all I can think about is how worried Lena might be that I never texted her back. The traffic light didn’t even stay red long enough for me to read the five unread messages still sitting in our conversation thread. Guilt buries itself even further under my skin.

Thankfully, I mostly avoided traffic and made it home in a record twenty minutes. When I jog up the walkway and open the front door, I don’t find Lena inside the house. The black French door leading to our patio is wide open, allowing the warm summer breeze to flow inside our house. Lena sits at the table in one of the black metal chairs with one leg stretched out, resting her heel on the edge of the chair across from her. Her laptop is propped open, halfway resting on the edge of the table. I can tell she’s working because her fingers slide back and forth across the screen, adjusting whatever image she’s working on. Her body is a complete contradiction to the intense concentration on her face. The corner of her mouth is curled up as she scrutinizes her design. Her usual pouty pink lips are twisted in thought and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen her do.

I watch Lena in silence as she lifts her glass of iced tea to her lips and tilts her head back. Beside her, laid out on the table, are two plates filled with grilled sandwiches and salad, untouched.

Finally, I step out onto the porch to join her. I nervously run my fingers through my shortened hair, wishing I had grown it back out. Lena had fallen in love with me at a time when my hair rested past my shoulders and it was tied up in a bun more than when it was down. I considered growing it out over the past year, but fear of reverting back to the life we once had far outweighed my desire to let it grow. Sometimes I wonder if Lena misses it as much as I do.

The midday sun beams down on Lena, highlighting the golden strands of her hair. Her skin is sun-kissed a light bronze and as she adjusts herself in her seat, I think about how my mouth has touched every inch. She hears me as I step onto the patio, glancing over her shoulder to find me standing in front of her. It’s then I realize how in the past year she really hasn’t changed. Neither has my love for her.

Our marriage may have fallen into some sort of vortex, the shadows of our past threatening to pull us in different directions, but looking at Lena the way she is now makes me think our love is stronger than those threatening to destroy us.

When her pale brown eyes stare back at mine, I hold my breath, hoping we can find our way back to one another before both of us become consumed by our pasts.

Four

Lena

“You’re home.” I try to keep my voice calm. For the past two hours I’ve struggled to balance my feelings between anger and worry. Worry that something bad might have happened to Logan. Anger that he didn’t keep our promise of texting throughout the day. We always sent a text. No matter what. But today was different. Hours hung between my text to Logan about the shed and the one where he said he was running late for our lunch. At first, I was afraid he would be upset with me for tearing down the shed and that would explain his delayed response. But when another hour passed and I hadn’t heard from him, I began to worry. Anger simmered beneath the fear and I tried to tell myself there could be any number of explanations as to why he had broken our rule of always texting back.

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize my emotions err more on the side of worry. I love Logan and the thought of anything bad happening to him causes my stomach to twist and my chest to ache.

“I’m sorry.” Logan tentatively steps toward me. His eyebrows dip with regret and his sculpted face softens. I study him, thinking back on how much has changed in the past year. His hair is shorter, and his beard isn’t as thick as it once was. When I first met Logan, his hair was tied into a high bun and once we crossed the line from friendship to relationship, I found myself constantly running my fingers through the thick beard that lined his sculpted jaw. He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever met and the complete opposite of Julian. In every way.

For a while, Logan refused to let it grow back. I often wondered whether it was because Logan wanted to keep us safe, convinced it protected us from Julian finding us, or if it was because he didn’t want to be the same person he was before.

But it wasn’t until about two months ago, I started to notice how he had let it grow past his eyebrows. He still keeps his face nearly shaved, a constant five o’clock shadow peppering his jaw instead of the full-grown beard he had when we met. But now, as his hair continues to grow, almost returning to the way it was when we met, I realize he’s maybe no longer living in a deep state of fear since we hadn’t heard from Julian. For a while after leaving Providence I would search for Julian all over the internet but always came up empty. It was as if he fell off the radar, erasing his name from ever being found. Part of that scared me, part of it was a relief.

With Julian disappearing from all social media and internet, Logan and I could slowly begin to live a life of normalcy. In a way, I guess Logan growing his hair out was one way. Maybe he was becoming the old Logan once again.

He bends down and places his lips against mine. The sweet, familiar taste of orange lands on my mouth and I breathe him in. Despite him not texting me back for most of the day, my anger subsides, quickly replaced with relief. He sits down in the chair beside me, leaning back and resting his elbows on the armrests. I can tell he isn’t sure what else to say, waiting for me to make the first move. I hold my breath, unsure of what I want him to say. Maybe his apology was enough.

My eyes shiftto my still open laptop. The logo I had been working on for the salon in Tennessee is almost complete. I was adding the last finishing touches when Logan had walked out onto the patio, satisfied with how it was turning out. I save the file then gently shut my laptop.

When I turn back to Logan his eyes shift from my laptop before moving past my shoulder, toward the yard. “You’ve been busy this morning.” A small laugh escapes his breath and the corner of his mouth turns up into a smirk. He’s changing the conversation, letting the silence between us swelter in the mild mid-summer heat.

I twist in my chair to look at the pile of splintered wood and shrug before turning back to Logan. “I don’t know. The urge to tear it down became overwhelming. I had the energy so thought it was time to get rid of it. Now I just have to figure out what to put in its place.”

Logan’s eyes soften, the gold flecks in them reflecting off the sun. “I really am sorry I didn’t text you back, Len.”

I sigh and stare at Logan. Despite his silence this morning, I do trust my husband enough to know there must be a reason he didn’t message me back. The heaviness and worry that weighed on my chest this morning is beginning to lift and I’m ready to move on, ready for it to disappear completely. “How did the training go with the new chef?”

Logan sits up, clearly happy I’m showing interest in his work. “It went great. Max always hires the best chefs.” I ignore the smirk that plays on Logan’s mouth, implying he’s one of those chefs. Logan’s always been modest about his culinary skills. It probably has to do with his upbringing in that he’s had to fight tooth and nail for everything he’s accomplished in his life. Logan’s career wasn’t handed to him on a silver platter. No pun intended. No, he started from the ground up, working every position possible in the restaurant business, absorbing all the skills he could.

As for me,my upbringing was a bit different. From birth, my parents had practically had my career all mapped out for me, ready to pay every cent and donate as many dollars as they could to get me into Harvard. I’d grown up in Massachusetts, surrounded by lawyers who’d feasted on the wealth of their clients. My father was no different. So, it didn’t come as a shock to me when he completely cut me off financially when I told him law school wasn’t for me. Within the second semester of my freshman year at Brown, I’d transferred all my courses from prelaw to graphic design. My father’s hand may not have exactly played a role in me achieving my art degree, but I can’t deny how he’d had a hand in getting me into Brown in the first place.

Logan’s life wasn’t as easy, and he knew it. That’s what I’d come to love about him over the time I’ve known him. He’s humble and constantly aware of how he’s gotten where he is in his career. He calls himself lucky to be where he is, but I always call bullshit on that one.

“Anyway,” Logan continues. “Not that it’s an excuse at all but there’s actually a reason I was held up and couldn’t get to my phone. Do you remember when we catered that fundraiser a few months back, for that architect?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t his name Gavin something?” I remember Logan coming home, spilling all the details on how he was catering an event for one of the most famous and richest men in Seattle.

“Gavin James.” Logan nods, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “Well, he came in the restaurant today and said he loved working with us on his last event so much that he wants us to cater for him again. This time it’s a larger, more formal event. He’s supposed to be emailing me and Max the details soon.”

---