Page 16 of October
"October?" A pause. "Can we talk?"
I said nothing.
He waited. I could hear him shifting his weight. "Okay. I'll be here if you want to. I just... I'm here."
That became the rhythm of our nights.
Knock. Whisper. Silence.
Sometimes, at night, I'd hear him settle outside the guest room door. His body made a soft thump against the wall, like even he was exhausted by the weight of everything unsaid. He'd talk low—half to me, half to the air—as if he believed maybe drywall could translate what his heart couldn't anymore.
"Long day today," he murmured once, voice muffled. "We finally wrapped the Concordia pitch. You know the one I've been sweating over for weeks? He paused. Waiting, hoping for something. But I said nothing. I was already curled on my side, eyes open in the dark.
Another night, he tried again. "I skipped lunch. I know, I know. You'd be mad. I just... forgot. The meeting ran over. But I had those granola bars you stuffed in the glove box last month. The ones you said were too chalky to actually enjoy."
I closed my eyes tighter. It hurt in the weirdest way, like a phantom ache from a limb that had been gone too long.
Once, I heard him clear his throat and say, "I wanted to ask how your day was. Did Lola do that thing again, with the blocks and the tower? You said she was starting to stack them like a little architect, and Alice—she had music today, right? And... did you go somewhere?"
My jaw clenched. That should've been normal. But I used to beg for this. For him to remember my schedule. To care. I'd sit beside him on the couch and ask about his meetings, his clients, his stress levels like I was trying to collect pieces of him before they scattered. I'd make him tea when he was tired. Offer solutions he didn't take. Sit in bed late waiting for him to walk in, just to ask, "Tell me something good about today." I'd rub his shoulders when he looked tense. Trace circles on his wrist with my thumb. Give a damn.
Now, I couldn't bring myself to even crack the door open. I heard his sighs when he thought I wasn't listening. The quiet frustration in his breath. The guilt, too. The confusion. He was looking for the version of me that used to greet him at the door, and instead he found a woman who no longer cared what mug he drank his coffee from.
But the worst part? I did care.
He started staying for breakfast, too. Sitting at the table instead of rushing out the door with his tie half-done like he used to. Jimmy barely acknowledged him. A few muttered "yeah"s or "dunno"s if he was directly spoken to, but mostly he pushed cereal around the bowl and avoided eye contact.
I didn't talk to Thomas much in the mornings. I offered coffee like a peace treaty I didn't believe in. I answered in single syllables. I didn't smile. He noticed, of course. He was noticing everything now—my clipped tone, my empty eyes, the invisible border between us. But it was too late for noticing. I had retreated to a place he could not follow.
After a while, I'd been craving something different—something that didn't feel like silence or resentment or walking on eggshells. Not just a change of scenery, but somethinginme. Something I could control. So, one morning after another long, silent breakfast with Thomas and the kids, while the coffee was still too hot to sip and the ache behind my eyes felt permanent, I made the call. Enrolled Lola in daycare—just for a few days a week. Enough to give myself a window of space. Enough to make it to the gym without racing the clock. Enough to be... a person again.
Thomas didn't find out until the night before her first day. I was folding laundry on the couch when he came in, holding the little daycare info sheet in his hand like it was a parking ticket.
"Where is this coming from?" he asked, voice laced with confusion and something else. Disapproval. "You've never put the kids in daycare before."
I didn't look up. "I know."
He stared at me for a beat, waiting for more. "Why now? Is everything okay with Lola?"
"She's fine," I said, still folding. "I just need a few mornings to myself."
He blinked. "Why didn't we talk about this?"
I finally looked up at him. "Because I wasn't asking."
That stunned him. I could see it in the way his jaw flexed, how he blinked like someone had just thrown cold water on him.
"I could take her to my mom's," he offered quickly, like he needed to fix it. "She's retired now. She'd love it and it'd save us money."
"She's getting older," I replied evenly. "And a baby is a lot of work. It's not fair to put that on her."
He wasn't convinced. I could see the arguments forming behind his eyes, ready to spill. But I wasn't in the mood for a debate. Not this time.
"I'll pay for it myself," I added.
His eyes widened. "What?"
"I'll cover it. Don't worry."
