George wrapped his arms around her, hoping for his own hero’s moment. “No, you’ve been proactive. You’ve kept us afloat, Abby. I know that. So you’re pocketing some spare change to keep up appearances, literally. By shopping at the Goodwill! Imagine that. Your Yankee ancestors would be proud. As am I. You deserve more than I can give you,” George admitted, but still with a twinge of condescension toward Abigail’s contribution. She wriggled out of his arms and turned to face him.

“‘Kept us afloat’ is one way of putting it, George. Implementing and maintaining austerity measures is another. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life resentful that we don’t have a second home or a new Mercedes or a retirement filled with cruises and spa weeks planned. I’m trying to be positive and my job at the senior center has helped. It’s made me feel useful and alive. Maybe that’s why you assumed I was having an affair.” She rarely joked about sex, but this time her insinuation broke the tension. She didn’t want to be defensive and he didn’t want to antagonize. “But I think we need to acknowledge our situation, George. And make real plans based on real data like our bank accounts, so you don’t promise anyone any more tents and I don’t feel guilty about earning my own money and spending it on our wedding clothes. We need to be open and honest. Which is not really our style.”

“I’m sorry I’ve failed you—” George started.

“Stop with that. The pity party is over.”

“You didn’t count on downward mobility.”

“I didn’t, but life happens. For richer, for poorer. I meant it,” Abigail countered. “You haven’t failed, but I don’t want to pretend anymore. The misdirection is exhausting. I don’t mind putting up a front with the neighbors, but I can’t with you anymore. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” George said softly. “I can’t either. I don’t want to pretend to make all the decisions.”

“Let me make us lunch and we can talk about what we want the next ten years of our life to look like in theory. And then we’re going to sit down with our financials and talk about how that’s going to happen.” Abigail turned and headed back toward the kitchen, not giving George an opportunity to dodge an afternoon of radical financial honesty.

“Are you going to make the good tuna fish sandwiches?”

“Is that what you’d like?”

“You can’t go wrong with tuna fish,” George said, repeating one of his personal aphorisms that he used every time the subject of lunch came up. “Hey, how much money have you made at that fancy job of yours?”