Lovely

— "The moon's moving away from us. Like an inch and a half a year. Eventually there won't be one." He says it into the dark like it's just occurred to him. It probably just has.

— "Your feet are freezing. What is going on in your circulatory system."

— Rolls over. Rolls back. Rolls over again. "You up?" You are now. "Sorry. Never mind. Go back to sleep."

— "If you had to pick between never having caffeine again or never having sugar again." He waits. Wants your actual answer.

— His mouth against your shoulder. Half-asleep. "Glad you're here." You almost miss it.

— "Babies don't have kneecaps until they're like three." "Joe." "It's true. Look it up."

— "Y/N." "Hm." "Do you think Batman would beat me in a fight." "He's fictional." "Yeah but hypothetically."

— From a dead sleep: "The word for the smell of rain on dry ground is petrichor." Then immediately back asleep.

— Starts telling you the plot of a documentary he watched on the flight home. You're falling asleep. He knows. He keeps going.

— "There's a fossil in Wyoming where you can see a fish eating another fish. It got fossilized mid-bite." "That's dark." "Yeah."

— "You're using all the blanket." "I'm not." "You are." You give him some blanket. "Thanks."

— "Bees can recognize human faces. They can pick you out of a lineup."

— "The T-Rex could barely lift its arms. Imagine being that big and being useless." Silence. "Sorry. That's mean."

— "Your alarm on for tomorrow?" You tell him yes. "For sure?" Yes. "Okay." A minute later: "Can I check it? Just to make sure?"

— Half-asleep. Mumbled into your hair. Genuinely concerned: "What if we invented cheese wrong."

— Middle of the night. His hand on your face in the dark. Not moving. Just resting there. He doesn't say anything for a long time. Then: "I'm glad you're mine."

“It’s not that funny,” he says, which makes it worse.

By the time you surface, your cheeks ache and the room has gone quiet around the two of you — the loose kind of quiet, the lamp off, the girls at their dad’s until Sunday. He’s still watching you.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” he says.

“What is this, camp?”

“I’m serious.” He is. You can hear it. “Anything. One thing.”

You look at him for a second. And maybe it’s the hour, or the laughing, or the fact that his foot is hooked over yours under the covers like it lives there, but you go.

“Okay.” You pull the sheet up like you’re preparing testimony. “You cannot ever tell Lola. I mean it. She remembers everything. She holds grudges across fiscal years.”

“Noted.”

“When Lola was four, my mother-in-law gave her this toy. A robot dog. It sang the alphabet, it sang Bingo, it had nine other songs and no off switch — and the volume button was broken. There was one volume. The volume was airshow.”

His mouth is already going crooked.

“For eight months, Joe. Eight months of that dog. And one night in February — trash night, because I planned it, I want you to understand this was planned — I took the dog out to the bin, and I put it under a full bag, and the truck came at six the next morning.”

“You buried it.”

“I buried it. And then —” you have to stop and breathe “—and then when Lola noticed, I helped her look for it. For forty-five minutes. I checked the toy chest twice. I said things like ‘where did you have it last, baby.’ I suggested places. I was incredible.”

Joe rolls onto his back like he’s been shot. “Premeditated. Trash night. That’s first-degree.”

“It was self-defense.”

“You ran a fake search party for a dog you killed.”

“And I’d do it again.”

He laughs — the real one, low, the one that comes up from his chest — and then he turns his head and looks at you like he’s filing the whole story somewhere permanent. Knowing him, he is.

“Your turn,” you say. “Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You’re expecting a story. Something with Zac in it, probably, or a fine he never paid. The pause goes on a little too long for that, and you watch the humor drain out of his face by degrees, and you realize he’s actually doing it. Answering the question for real.

“I don’t know who I am if I’m not playing.”

He says it to the ceiling, flat, and then makes a low sound, frustrated with himself already.

“That’s not — every guy in that locker room would say that. It’s a thing guys say. I don’t mean it like that.” His hand comes up, drags down his face. “I mean I’ve been doing this since I was five years old. Every version of me there has ever been got built around football. School me. College me. This me. And it ends. It ends for everybody, and most of the time it doesn’t ask first. One play. One wrong step on bad turf and the morning after, you’re somebody else.”

You stay quiet. You can feel how much it’s costing him to keep going.

“And some nights I try to picture it. The next morning. What I do, who I am, what the day even looks like.” He shakes his head once against the pillow. “There’s nothing there. Static.”

The house is very quiet.

“I’ve never said that out loud. Not to Zac. Not to my dad — especially not my dad.” A short breath through his nose. “Football’s how we talk.”

You find his hand under the covers and hold it. You don’t tell him it’ll be fine, because you don’t know that, and he’d know you don’t know it.

“Thank you for telling me,” you say.

He turns his head. Looks at you for a long moment in the dark.

“Why didn’t it work?” he asks. “You and him.”

There it is. You knew the game was headed somewhere. He probably did too, when he started it.

“People always want it to be one thing,” you say. “When they find out you’re divorced, they ask what happened, and what they’re really asking is which thing. An affair. A fight. Somebody threw a plate.” You settle deeper into the pillow, facing him. “It wasn’t one thing. It was a lot of things over a long time, and every single one of them was small enough to live with on its own. That’s how it gets you.”

He waits. He’s good at waiting.

“It started with decisions. I made all of them. Doctor, dentist, daycare, dinner — not cooking dinner, knowing what dinner is, seven days out, forever. Which kid has outgrown her shoes. Whose birthday party is on Saturday, and did we RSVP? And I worked, Joe. The whole time. Full time.”

“He didn’t?”

“He worked too. I want to be fair. He went to work and he came home, and somewhere between the door and the couch, the day became mine to run.”

His thumb moves once across your knuckles and stops.

“Then Lola was born, and I got postpartum. Bad. Not baby blues — the real thing, the kind with a diagnosis. I was drowning and I knew I was drowning, and one night I asked him — I remember exactly where I was standing, by the dishwasher — I asked him why all of it was mine.”

You can still hear the answer. Years out, you can still hear the exact pitch of it.

“He said, ‘You’ve always done it.’”

Joe doesn’t move.

“That was the whole answer. I’d always done it. Precedent.” You shrug, one shoulder against the mattress. “So I kept doing it. Then Gemma came, and the postpartum came back worse, and that time I didn’t ask. I already knew the answer. Why hear it twice.”

“‘You’ve always done it,’” Joe repeats. It’s the flattest you’ve ever heard his voice.

“After that it was just — subtraction. We stopped touching each other. Then we stopped talking, except logistics. By the end we were running a household by text from separate rooms of the same house. And one day I did the math. If I’m doing every bit of it by myself anyway, I might as well actually be by myself. At least then I’d stop waiting for him to look up.”

“So you left.”

“I sat him down. A Tuesday night, after the girls were asleep. I’d been writing the speech in my head for a month — in the shower, in the car line at school. I had counterarguments ready for everything he was going to say. I was ready for the fight.” You breathe out. “I think I wanted the fight. Some part of me thought if he fought hard enough —”

You stop. Start again.

“He didn’t fight. I got four sentences into a twenty-sentence speech and he was nodding. And when I stopped, he looked —” you can still see it “—relieved. Like I’d let him out of something he didn’t know how to quit on his own. Ten years and two kids, and he agreed with me like I’d suggested a different restaurant.”

Joe’s jaw works once. He doesn’t say anything. The stillness coming off him has weight to it.

“Three months after he moved out, he was dating a twenty-one-year-old.” You say it evenly. You’ve had three years of practice saying it evenly. “And I did that math too. Three months is fast. I just decided not to finish the problem.”

For a while neither of you says anything. The fan ticks on its bad bearing, around and around.

“Your turn,” you say. “Six years. What happened?”

“Nothing as bad as that.” He says it plainly, like he’s setting his story down a shelf below yours, where he thinks it belongs. “We met at nineteen. College. And then it was long distance for five of the six years — she was in Ohio, I was wherever football put me. We saw each other on bye weeks and holidays. We got really good at airports.”

“And the last year?”

“Last year we were finally in the same city. Took about four months of actually being in the same room to figure out we’d been done for a long time.” He’s quiet for a second. “We loved each other. Just not like that anymore. Hadn’t for a while. The distance kept us from noticing — you can’t tell the difference between missing someone and loving them when you’re always missing them.”

“Did you fight it?” The question is out before you’ve decided to ask it.

“No.” He doesn’t dress it up. “Nobody was leaving anybody. We just stopped. It’s different when you both know.”

“Yeah,” you say, and you find that you mean it. “It is.”

He reaches over and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, and his hand stays at the side of your neck, his thumb at your jaw. The fan ticks. Somewhere down the street a car door closes. You should sleep. Neither of you moves.

“Tell me something else you’ve never told anyone,” you say.

He answers before you’ve finished asking.

“You scare me.” His thumb moves once against your jaw. “Never had anything I was scared to lose before.”

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