unnecessary. He could have stood there all night and watched her run the show. Even as he marveled over the woman he’d married, however, he couldn’t help but feel distinctly out of place. Not only because he was the proverbial fox in the hen house and stood out like a red ink blot on a white shirt. But because, for the first time, he was seeing his wife through a different set of eyes and realizing . . . she’d grown. Without him.
He’d had nothing to do with it.
Dominic opened Bethany’s fridge and took out a bottle of water, uncapping it and drinking deeply. He would have much preferred a beer, but he wouldn’t have even one knowing Rosie would be in the passenger seat of his truck. Rosie, who was now writing out a recipe for chicken Parmesan with one hand, tracing out a new spreadsheet with the other—all while having a full conversation. This was the same woman he’d passed in their silent house, day after day. All the while, she’d had these amazing capabilities.
She should have been running that restaurant years ago.
God, maybe . . . she should have left him years ago.
“Hey.” His wife turned to him, her eyes bright with exhilaration. “Hey, um . . . there’s a big Tupperware container of carbonada in the fridge. Oh, and some alfajores on a plate on top of the microwave. Could you help me put them in the truck?”
“On it.”
“Thank you.”
She started to say something else, but several people began talking to her at once, hijacking her attention. On the way out of the house, with his arms full of food, he couldn’t help but pause in the doorframe and take in a wide shot of the scene. Everyone was getting ready to pack up and move out, and Rosie was doing the same, Bethany and Georgie helping her pile supplies like napkins, paper plates, and plastic forks into a bag. He could easily see her doing the same thing in a bustling restaurant, knowing exactly what everyone needed to make their dining experience fluid, better, because it was second nature.
This. This is what made her happy. Not warming up her car in the morning or breaking his back on a construction site. She wanted to feed people. When she hadn’t gotten enough encouragement at home, she’d gone and found it elsewhere. The worst part was, he’d known she wanted to own her own place. From the time they were in high school, her dream had been front and center in conversations with him. With her mother. Instead of buying her a restaurant, however, he’d been selfish and spent money on a house. A house he thought she’d love as much as him. A house they’d spent their youth designing like spun sugar, over the phone, under the stars. If he’d talked to her more as an adult—or listened, rather—he wouldn’t have buried the importance of Rosie owning her own restaurant beneath his selfish desire to be her provider. He’d needed that role, and a house was something he could give her all on his own. Maybe he’d even done it on purpose, subconsciously, trying to be the proverbial breadwinner.
But a restaurant . . . that would be all her. And none of him. None of them.
Still, if he’d known how happy it would make her, he would have used the money he’d saved to buy her a place. Somewhere she could shine. Except that opportunity was no longer available.
Had he actually planned on showing her that house tonight? Was he insane?
Dominic walked out into the cold with a lump the size of a fist in his throat. Since the day Rosie left him, he’d been asking her to come home. She’d been hesitant, and while he knew they had problems, he’d thought she was being stubborn. Unreasonable. But as he slid the tray of alfajores and pot of stew into the back cab of his truck, he finally admitted to himself that therapy was exactly where they belonged.
Rosie spreading her wings and flying was a beautiful sight to witness, but would it mean she flew away from him? How selfish was he to be worried about that kind of thing?
Dominic closed the rear door of the truck with a curse, turned, and came face-to-face with Rosie. She looked so familiar and beautiful in her red coat, he wanted to get on his knees and ask her forgiveness for being a selfish bastard. I’m sorry, honey girl.
“Are