Part 7
I was about to put the car in drive when the screen illuminated the dark cabin.
Julian: Is everything alright?
I stared at the glowing letters, my thumb hovering over the glass.
No, I typed. That is why I need to see you.
Three gray dots danced at the bottom of the screen. A moment later, the response arrived: Verve Coffee. 7:30 AM. I’ll be there.
The next morning, I stood in the master bathroom, carefully applying mascara. My armor. I hadn’t slept. I’d spent the night in the guest room, listening to the heavy silence of the house and the relentless Pacific Northwest rain.
Marcus appeared in the doorway just before seven. He was wearing the same sweatpants from the night before, his hair rumpled, the bags under his eyes dark and pronounced. He leaned against the frame, his gaze tracking over my tailored silk blouse and the gold hoops I usually reserved for court appearances.
“You’re up early,” he noted, his voice thick with sleep. “Where are you going?”
“I have a meeting before work.”
“With who?”
“Julian.”
The name hit him like a physical blow. The sleepy, passive-aggressive posture vanished instantly, replaced by a rigid, vibrating tension.
Julian was the ghost that haunted Marcus’s entire existence. While Marcus had spent his thirties quitting entry-level jobs because he felt underappreciated, his older brother had built a highly successful commercial real estate firm from the ground up. Julian owned his home in Mercer Island outright. He had offered Marcus a position twice; Marcus had declined both times, citing philosophical differences, though the truth was he couldn’t stomach reporting to someone whose mere presence highlighted his own chronic failures.
“Cancel it,” Marcus ordered, stepping into the bathroom.
I calmly screwed the wand back into the mascara tube. “No.”
“I’m not asking, Elena. You are not meeting my brother to air out our marital issues.”
He lunged forward, snatching my phone right off the marble vanity. It was a quick, aggressive movement meant to startle me into submission. He held the device tightly, his thumb pressing the side button to wake the screen.
“What’s his number?” Marcus demanded, his breathing suddenly shallow. “I’m texting him right now. Tell me the passcode.”
I didn’t reach for the phone. I didn’t raise my voice or try to grab it back. I simply turned to face him, leaning my hip against the counter.
“Put the phone down, Marcus.”
“Give me the passcode, or I’m throwing it in the sink.”
“If you damage that phone,” I said, my voice dropping to a perfectly flat, conversational tone, “I will leave this house, drive to the Verizon store, and buy a new one. Then I will go to the coffee shop and tell your brother exactly what you just did. And when I am finished doing that, I will call a locksmith to change the deadbolts on the front door before you get back from wherever you choose to storm off to today.”
Marcus stared at me. His knuckles were white around the device. He was waiting for me to break, to apologize, to return to the anxious wife who hated conflict and compromised to keep the peace.
I picked up my leather handbag. “I am going to turn around, walk down the stairs, and go to my car. If you’d like to keep the phone, feel free. It’s on my data plan anyway.”
I walked past him. For a second, I thought he might grab my arm, but he didn’t. As I reached the top of the stairs, I heard the sharp, plastic clatter of the phone being slammed down onto the bathroom counter.
I retrieved it, walked out the front door, and didn’t look back.
The coffee shop in downtown Kirkland was loud, filled with the hiss of espresso machines and the low hum of morning corporate meetings. I spotted Julian immediately.
He was sitting at a corner table, dressed in a sharp navy blazer and an open-collared shirt. He stood up as I approached. He possessed the same dark hair and height as Marcus, but that was where the similarities ended. Julian carried himself with a quiet, anchored authority. He didn’t need to suck the air out of a room to prove he was in it.
He pulled me into a brief, polite embrace. He smelled like cedar and expensive, clean rain. It was a jarring contrast to the heavy, overpowering cologne Marcus bathed in.
“You look exhausted,” Julian said as we sat down. It wasn’t a critique; it was an observation, delivered with genuine concern.
“I am.”
He slid a ceramic cup across the table toward me. “I took a guess. Vanilla latte, oat milk, extra espresso.”
I stared at the foam art on the surface of the coffee, something tight and painful in my chest threatening to snap.
“How did you know that?” I asked.
Julian leaned back in his chair, watching me carefully. “You’ve ordered it after every Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas brunch for the last five years.” He offered a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I pay attention to details.”
I wrapped my hands around the warm mug. Marcus still had to text me from the drive-thru to ask what I drank. We had been married for ten years, and he still treated my basic preferences like trivia he couldn’t be bothered to memorize.