she’d overreacted. She knew that now. Her plan was to apologize right away, get it out of the way so that they could enjoy the rest of their kid-free night. She hadn’t meant for things to get as heated as they had, but lately Winnie had felt off balance emotionally. It was her own fault; sometimes she looked for things to be upset about, as if a lack of problems was its own problem in her mind. Nigel would rather pretend that nothing was wrong, though he hadn’t always been like that. Her husband hated confrontation, and that comforted Winnie. The kitchen window came into view, and Winnie saw that Nigel had left the back door open.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped into what she thought of as the belly of the house. It was clean, the spills from last night mopped and cleared away—not a speck of her Pyrex on the floor. She felt more positive than she had even five seconds ago. Nigel was a good man; he’d cleaned everything up so she wouldn’t have to, even though she’d been the one to pick the fight.
As she closed the door quietly behind her, Nigel stood with his back to her, examining the contents of the fridge. Winnie took a moment to admire him; he hadn’t heard her come in on account of the music he was playing, “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac. She didn’t want to startle him, so she waited, her hip leaning against the lip of the counter. It felt like such a strange thing to do, being that they’d been married for over a decade, but sometimes Winnie had no clue how to act around her husband.
For the most part, Nigel was charming, funny, easy to talk to—check, check, check. The one thing people never seemed to pick up on was the fact that he refused to talk about himself. If you asked him a question, he’d deflect, lead the conversation back to you. For this reason, Winnie felt like she couldn’t really know her husband; he simply didn’t want to be known. She was content to be part of him, however shallow that made her.
When he turned around, she had her best smile ready.
Nigel jumped. “Je—sh—you scared me.”
“Sorry. I was actually trying not to.”
Nigel didn’t smile back; he was distracted. Winnie cocked her head, trying to read his face. He was wearing his feelings tonight. Nigel became still when he was troubled—his face, his body, everything frozen in sagging, bent defeat.
She skipped over, wrapping her arms around him. He smelled so good, and not because of cologne or aftershave—Nigel smelled good. When they’d first started dating, he’d accepted her enthusiastic affection with the amusement an owner would have for a new puppy. And Winnie had loved being Nigel’s new puppy; the joy her personality seemed to bring him gave Winnie’s every day meaning. He’d given her the nickname Bear, a Winnie-the-Pooh joke.
But then the bad thing had happened.
After that, it was as if the rosy illumination with which he viewed her had been replaced with harsh, supermarket lighting. She wasn’t Bear anymore. Now she was just plain old Winnie. But it wasn’t like she still had hearts in her eyes every time she looked at him, either. They were settled into their arrangement, whatever that was, and though Winnie loved her husband very much, she saw him through human eyes now.
“Nothing for dinner,” he said. Lifting his hands to her back, he looked over his shoulder, staring dully into the fridge. Winnie thought he was joking. She smiled, wanting him to get on with it and tell her where they were going.
But then he pointed to the plastic containers stacked on the otherwise bare shelf: spaghetti and fried rice. “The spaghetti is old,” he announced, and then held up the Tupperware container of rice. “There’s barely enough for one person. I could have sworn there was more left over.”
She screwed up her face, the two of them examining the Tupperware, Winnie trying not to cry. He’d forgotten their anniversary. He’d forgotten once before, in the beginning, and he’d felt really bad about it. Winnie didn’t think he’d feel bad about it this time.
“Eggs,” Nigel said suddenly, jarring her. “We have a box of powdered eggs that came with that survival kit your brother got us.”
“For our wedding?” Winnie gaped. She was hoping the word wedding would spark some recognition in her husband, but Nigel didn’t answer—he was in the pantry moving things