I had just unlocked the front door when Nate stumbled inside, reeking of whiskey.
“Claire,” he breathed, slumping against the wall. “Did you hear?”
His tie was loose, his shirt half-untucked. He looked like a man whose world had just caved in.
“Hear what?”
“Rachel’s getting married.”
The name hit like a slap. I blinked.
“You’re drunk,” I said.
He nodded too eagerly. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. But I still heard it. She’s really marrying him.”
I set my keys on the entry table, slowly. “Rachel from…?”
“Our break,” he said. “That Rachel.”
Of course. The only Rachel who ever mattered. The girl who haunted the corners of our marriage like a half-open door.
Nate laughed bitterly, then winced and collapsed onto the couch. “She was supposed to wait.”
I stood over him, arms folded. “Wait for what? You’ve been married to me for seven years.”
That made him flinch. Good.
He buried his face in his hands. “God, Claire. I didn’t mean— It’s just— She was supposed to wait.”
I walked to the kitchen without answering. The rage was a cold, neat thing in my chest. It helped keep the lupus ache at bay.
When I returned with water, he was already half-asleep on the couch, whispering her name into the cushion.
Rachel. Rachel. Rachel.
I stood there a long time.
Eventually, I placed the glass on the table. Pulled a blanket over him. Sat beside the couch, not beside him.
And I waited.
Not because I forgave him.
But because I wanted to know what kind of man wakes up from a dream of someone else… and then pretends it never happened.
Morning came gray and quiet.
Nate stirred, eyes heavy. “Claire?”
“You were out cold,” I said.
“God.” He rubbed his face. “Did I say anything stupid?”
You said her name thirteen times.
“You don’t remember?”
He paused. “Bits and pieces. I’m sorry.”
I nodded. Just enough to make the moment pass.
He hesitated, then gave me that sheepish grin he used to use in college. “You know… we never had a real wedding.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Like—flowers, cake, the whole thing. We should do it right. You deserve that.”
The words sat between us like a bomb with no timer. After last night? Now he wanted to play husband?
My voice was low. “Why now?”
“I just… we never got the wedding you dreamed of.”
He was trying. I could see it in the hopeful light behind his eyes.
But I could still hear her name in his mouth.
I looked away. “We’ll talk later.”
Because I didn’t know if this was a beginning.
Or the end wrapped in prettier paper.
