Sunday morning arrived cold and bright. I woke early, dressed in jeans and a sweater, and made myself toast with honey. I ate standing at the counter. Then I took my book to the chair by the window and sat in the pale light, reading.
Gavin came downstairs around nine. I heard his footsteps on the stairs — slow, leisurely, the pace of a man expecting something warm and ready. He walked into the kitchen and stopped.
"No pancakes today?" His voice was light. Teasing.
I turned a page. "I already ate."
"I'm starving." He opened the fridge, looked inside, closed it again. "You feeling okay?"
"I'm fine."
He poured himself coffee. Leaned against the counter. Waited for me to say more. I didn't. After a minute he laughed — a short, uncertain sound — and pulled out his phone. "Guess I'll order something."
I kept reading. The words blurred together but I kept my eyes on the page.
He ate cereal standing up. Left the bowl in the sink. Went upstairs to shower. I listened to the water run and thought about all the Sunday mornings I'd gotten up before him, mixed batter, set the table, warmed the syrup. Thought about his face when he came down to find everything ready. How he used to kiss the top of my head and say I spoiled him.
I didn't move from the chair.
That night, I left the porch light off. Gavin noticed when he came home from his run. "Light's out," he said, slightly breathless, pulling out his keys in the dark.
"I know."
"You forget to turn it on?"
"No."
He looked at me for a moment. Then he shrugged and went inside.
I stood on the porch a little longer, watching the street. The cold felt good on my face.
---
Wednesday night, Gavin made salmon. He was in a good mood — humming while he worked, opening wine, talking about some pitch he'd nailed at work. I set the table. We sat down.
"I've been thinking," he said, cutting into his fish. "Maybe it's time."
I looked up. "Time for what?"
"A baby." He smiled. "I mean, we're stable. The apartment's big enough. You're home anyway." He said it like he was offering me a gift. Like he'd thought it through and decided I'd earned it.
I set down my fork.
He kept talking. "I know we said we'd wait, but honestly? I think now's a good time. My bonus came through. Your mom would be thrilled. And you'd be great at it." He reached across the table, squeezed my hand. "What do you think?"
I looked at him. Really looked. At his easy smile. At the confidence in his eyes. At the way he'd framed the whole thing around his timeline, his bonus, his decision.
"I don't think so," I said quietly.
His smile faltered. "You... don't think so?"
"No."
He waited. I could see him expecting me to explain, to soften it, to turn it into a conversation where he could talk me into agreement. I picked up my fork and took another bite of salmon.
The silence stretched. He cleared his throat. "Is this... are you saying not now, or not ever?"
I chewed slowly. Swallowed. "I'm saying I don't think so."
"Rosemary—"
"Can you pass the salt?"
He stared at me. Then he passed the salt. We finished dinner without speaking. He did the dishes. I dried. We moved around the kitchen like polite strangers.
When I went to bed, he stayed downstairs. I heard the television murmuring through the floor.
---
Friday afternoon, Gavin came into the bedroom with his overnight bag. "Chicago trip," he said, kissing my cheek. "Back Sunday night. Clients want to tour some properties."
"Okay."
"You'll be alright?"
"I'll be fine."
He hesitated at the door. "Love you."
I looked up from the book I was pretending to read. "Drive safe."
He left. I listened to his car pull away. Then I sat very still for a long time.
My phone buzzed. Ambrose. *He's gone again?*
I typed back. *Yes.*
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. *I know a place that makes good soup. If you want company.*
I stared at the message. Outside, the light was fading. The apartment felt too big and too quiet and I was so tired of both.
I stood up. Put on my coat. Texted back: *Send me the address.*
The subway was crowded. I stood holding the pole, watching the tunnel lights blur past, and realized I hadn't thought about where Gavin actually was. Hadn't pictured him in Chicago. Hadn't wondered about his hotel or his meetings or whether he'd remember to call.
I'd stopped checking.
The restaurant was small. Warm. Ambrose was already there, sitting at a corner table, two bowls of soup steaming in front of him. He stood when I walked in.
"You came," he said.
"You said good soup."
He smiled. A real one. "I don't lie about soup."
We sat. The soup was good. We didn't talk about Gavin. We didn't talk about Noelle. We talked about books and the city and the way certain streets looked in winter. Easy things. Small things.
When I got home that night, the apartment was dark and empty. I turned on one lamp. Made tea. Sat at the kitchen table.
And I realized I hadn't missed Gavin at all.
