Page 112 of Beyond Oblivion

“Need help?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Thomas didn’t even look up. “Yeah, if you could set the table, that’d be great.”

“On it,” I said, grabbing plates and silverware.

Camille joined me, her smile soft and unguarded as she handed me a stack of napkins. For a moment, it felt like we were normal—like the cracks in our foundation hadn’t been wide enough to swallow us whole just a few days before.

Dinner was simple but perfect: spaghetti with homemade marinara, a salad that actually made me consider eating my greens, and garlic bread with some extra ingredient they refused to reveal, no matter how many times I asked.

We sat at the wooden dining table, sharing stories and laughter. The conversation flowed easily, each of us adding something to the moment that made it feel lighter. For the first time in what felt like forever, things didn’t feel so complicated—it was just food, company, and childhood tales; one of those evenings you didn’t want to end.

After dinner, Camille joined Liis in the kitchen, the sound of running water and clinking dishes carrying through the open windows. Every so often, their voices carried out, a comforting hum that brought a grin to my face each time I caught it. Thomas and I stayed busy setting up for the movie, untangling wires, adjusting the oversized screen, rearranging the furniture, and hauling drinks, pillows, and blankets out to the patio.

The absence of cars, dogs barking, even the hum of an air conditioner was almost unsettling, making me pause and scan the yard every time a breeze rustled through the brush. The faint chirp of crickets and other whispers of nature filled the gaps, but as soon as Thomas powered on the projector, it whirred softly and cast a faint glow against the screen, helping me to relax.

Overhead, the sky stretched wide and impossibly clear, littered with stars so bright they almost didn’t look real. Thomas worked in focused silence, unrolling a blanket over one of the chairs, while I adjusted the projector’s angle. For a moment, neither of us spoke, letting the stillness settle around us like an old, comfortable friend.

“Thanks for doing this,” I said finally, breaking the silence.

Thomas nodded; his gaze fixed on the horizon. “You’re family. This is what we do.”

The simplicity of his answer hit me harder than I expected. Family. The word carried weight, but it didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like a lifeline.

Inside, Camille’s laugh floated through the open window, and for the first time in weeks, I let myself hope. It wasn’t forced or polite, but the kind of laugh that sneaks up on you, escaping before you can think to hold it back. Everything felt... okay. Maybe not perfect. Maybe not fixed, but a solid start.

Thomas glanced at me from where he was adjusting the outdoor loveseat, his expression unreadable but knowing. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. Camille’s laugh said it all.

Camille came out onto the patio, a blanket draped over her arms. “Liis sent me with reinforcements,” she said, holding up a bottle of beer before passing it to me. Her tone was light, but her eyes softened when they met mine.

“Good timing,” I said, draping the blanket over one of the chairs. “We’re just about ready.”

Liis followed behind her, carrying a tray of drinks, her movements calm but efficient. She set it down on a small table, giving a quick nod of approval at the setup. Thomas, ever the perfectionist, made one last adjustment to the projector before stepping back and crossing his arms, as if mentally giving himself a pat on the back.

Somewhere in the distance, a coyote let out a low, mournful howl, its voice stretching across the empty expanse.

“Is that the spooky?” Camille asked.

Thomas and Liis traded glances. “Sure,” he said, dragging out the word.

We all laughed, knowing he was lying for Camille’s sake.

We settled in, each of us sinking into our chairs as the movie started. The screen flickered to life against the adobe wall, its light casting faint shadows on the patio. Camille curled up next to me, a blanket draped over her lap, her shoulders relaxed for the first time in what felt like forever.

We weren’t trying to fix anything or figure out what was next. We were just there, existing in each other’s orbit the way we used to. I leaned back, staring up at the endless stretch of stars overhead, letting my wife’s faint but comforting scent settle around me. For the first time in a long time, I let go of the anger, the anxiety, the guilt, and the shame. I let myself just be the guy who adored his wife, and I let her love me back without questioning whether I deserved it.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Camille

The movie ended with laughter lingering in the air, but by the time we parted ways—even with tired smiles and quiet goodnights—the unease in my gut had settled in, creeping through me like the chill of the desert night air.

Trenton and I withdrew to our room, the soft glow of the bedside lamp stretching long shadows across the adobe walls, highlighting their uneven texture. The room was quiet except for the faint creak of the wooden floorboards beneath our feet and the occasional click of the ceiling fan chain against its base. The scent of the desert, dry and earthy, drifted from the open window and lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the fresh laundry smell from the blankets Liis had folded neatly at the foot of the bed sometime between dinner and the movie.

Trenton moved to the chair in the corner, tossing his boots aside, while I hovered near the dresser, attempting to regulate the unexpected but growing dread tightening in my chest.

“That scene when the ship runs out of gas,” he said, “it gets me every time.”

I nodded, managing a small laugh as I fiddled with the hem of my shirt. He didn’t seem to notice the strain in my voice—on the contrary, he seemed to be in the best mood he’d been in for weeks. I didn’t want to ruin it. Instead, I forced my best impression of the wife he used to know, the version of me that existed before the night that changed everything.

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