The Private Serials Box Set(3)

He never looked at me. He was focused on his plate.

“Did you have a good day at work?” I asked innocently, like it was a question I asked him every evening.

“I suppose. I was busy. Lots of meetings.”

“Oh, well, hopefully you’ll be able to relax tonight.”

I picked up the platter of roast and carried it to him, stood there as he picked up the fork and started serving himself. I took him in, looked over his profile. His hair looked a little messy, which was abnormal for him. He was usually put together, always immaculately pristine. His hard day of work must have stressed him out more than he let on. It looked as if he’d run his hands through his hair all day, undoing any styling he’d invested in this morning before he left the house.

My eyes wandered still lower, along the thickness of his neck. The muscles that ran from his chin down to his shoulders flexed as his jaw clenched. He looked nervous, and I saw his pulse beating rapidly along his throat.

“Are you feeling all right?” I asked, genuinely concerned.

“I’m fine, Lena. Let’s just get on with this.” I was startled by his rudeness. He was often cold toward me, removed and stiff, but never rude.

I was turning away from him, moving to grab the bowl of roasted potatoes, when my eye spotted something down inside the collar of his shirt. Before I could stop it, my finger involuntarily moved to his collar and pushed it aside gently and I saw more of what had caught my eye to begin with.

“Did you hurt yourself?” I asked, and at the same time, he swatted my hand away from his neck.

“No, I didn’t hurt myself. Lena, this is ridiculous. I have things to do.”

My mind swirled with different thoughts and feelings as I tried to process everything that was happening. One thing became abundantly clear in that moment: he was hiding something from me. What I had first spotted and assumed was a bruise along his collarbone, I realized, like a bucket of cold water dumped on me unexpectedly, was a hickey.

He stood abruptly, the sound of the chair legs scraping against the travertine tile floors sending shivers down my spine, like nails on a chalkboard. I’d always hated those tile floors.

“Where are you going?” I asked hurriedly, trying to catch him before he made it all the way out of the room. Although, I could guess where he was headed – his office. If he was home and awake, he was usually hiding in there. He knew I had no business being in there, and so that was how he escaped me.

“Like I said, I have things to do.” He continued out of the room and I set the platter down, following him.

“What could be more important than having a meal with your wife on your anniversary?” I shouted at him as I followed him through the house, my voice echoing off the walls. I heard him sigh loudly again, but he still walked away from me.

“Lena, don’t do this.” He had entered his office and sat down at the big chair behind his desk.

“Don’t do what? Make you dinner? Ask to spend time with you? Why can’t we try to be normal or maybe even happy, just for one night? We used to be happy, Derrek. We used to be in love and happy. I just wanted to try and get a little happiness back tonight.”

He was silent for a moment, shuffling papers around on his desk, avoiding my eyes. He moved those papers around, stacking them on one corner of his desk, and then moved them to another corner. He tapped on his keyboard, stared at the screen of his computer like the answers to all the world’s problems could be found there. One thing he wouldn’t look at was me.

“You can’t ignore me, Derrek. I’m your wife.”

“I’m aware of that fact,” he mumbled, sounding angry.

“What was that mark I saw under your shirt collar, Derrek?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.”

“Lena, please…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand what’s gotten into you.”

“I spent all day trying to think of how I could surprise you for our anniversary, trying to think of ways to get back that spark we use to have between us, and you come home with a hickey under your shirt.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he said under his breath.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Then take off your shirt.”

He paused, obviously not expecting me to say those words. I hadn’t asked him to take off any piece of clothing in months. Perhaps even over a year. I’d have to really think about it to come up with a solid answer.

“Lena, please, let’s stop deluding ourselves,” he finally replied, finally lifted his eyes to look me straight in mine.

“I don’t think I’m deluding myself. I know what I saw.”

“Our marriage, the part of our relationship where we have meals together or spend time alone together, is over. It’s been over for a long time now. You know it. I know it. I’m content with the way things are now.”

“What do you mean, ‘it’s over’?” I gasped.

“We haven’t behaved like a married couple for years now, Lena. Out in the public eye, we continue to hold up the image of our marriage, but here – in this house – our marriage fell apart long ago.”

I agreed with him, knew what he was saying to be true, but I didn’t think it was a lost cause, didn’t think it was doomed. He sounded like it was dead and gone. I just felt like it needed some work – could be resuscitated.