Page 115 of The Art of Dying

I grumbled. “Martinez gets under my skin, and he knows better than to talk shit about my family.”

“He wasn’t talking shit. He just doesn’t know what he doesn’t know, and he thinks you’re insane.” Her expression changed as realization sunk in. “I’m so sorry. Wanting to be honest with your team when they think we’re really gone… must be humiliating for you. To feel like you’ve lost their respect because they think you still hang out with your dead wife… no wonder you…” She covered her mouth. “Kitsch.”

“It’s exhausting,” I said, suddenly feeling tired.

“You must think I’m so selfish,” she whispered.

“Not selfish. I know you have your reasons, I just… I don’t know, babe. I’m tired. Can we just go to bed?”

She put away her late-night snack and reached for my hand, leading me to our bedroom.

I reached over my head and pulled my T-shirt up and over, tossing it to the hamper and then crawled in between the sheets. She was in the bathroom, applying something greasy under her eyes.

“I was uh…” I began. “I wanted to ask you…” I hesitated, so tired of disappointment. “Trex and Darby are getting married.”

She covered her face with her hands. “They are? How exciting!”

“You should be there.”

“Oh,” she said, the energy in the room plummeting. “I just… I don’t want to ruin their day by upsetting everyone.”

“So, let’s get everyone at Naomi’s and tell them before. They’ll be so happy, babe…”

She stood by her side of the bed. “I’m not ready.” She switched off the lamp and crawled in beside me, the sheets ruffling as she settled in.

“Mack,” I said, followed by a heavy sigh. I dragged my hand down my face. “You’re not getting it, honey. It’s not going to ruin anything. They’ll be happy. I don’t know how to make you understand.”

“I know you think they’ll be happy, and maybe they will, but it’s not just about that…”

“It’s what Iknow, honey. I know these people.”

“And I don’t?” she asked, offended.

“You wouldn’t know anything about them if I didn’t tell you,” I snapped.

She was quiet for too long, so I turned my back to my wife, angry with myself as much as anyone.

“Well,” she said, lightly placing her hand on my hip. “Dylan keeps saying he wants to go to public school next year. Maybe in August…”

“Maybe?”

She sighed and turned her back to me, too.

“Are you serious right now, Mack?” I asked, sitting up. “I’ve had the patience of a fuckin’ saint.”

She didn’t answer.

I let my head fall against the headboard, staring at the corner of the room where the wall met the ceiling. After the silence grew too loud, I turned onto my side, snuggled up behind her, and kissed her shoulder.

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said, trying not to let her hear the frustration in my voice. “I know.”

After a beat, she turned around to face me. “Have you… have you heard from Tiger?”

“He marked off Number Eighteen Tuesday.”

“So… there’s just one left?” she asked. I could see the hope in her eyes, even in the darkness.

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