“Well, okay then. I’ve got enough going on in my life right now anyway.” I stand and pick up my purse to leave. “I’ll get going.”

“Wait. Wait, please.” He takes off his glasses and lays them on the table, rubs his eyes.

I sit back down.

“Maybe I was a little needy. Jay had a lot of responsibilities, and I might’ve added too much to them, and I wasn’t always too nice when he was just trying to help.”

“What? What else, Cal?”

He blows out a breath. “Last spring, back when you guys were moving into the house, I got some bad news.”

“What kind of bad news?”

“I got diagnosed with a hereditary eye disease.” He drops his clenched hands on the table. “My mother had it. She was diagnosed in her forties and was totally blind by her late fifties.”

“Oh, no. Is there anything they can do?”

“Not much. That’s why I’ve been irritable. I’ve been taking it out on everybody, I guess. No one knows except Laken and Jay. I really didn’t want anyone else to know. And Laken’s tried to be understanding, but I haven’t made it easy. I know that. I’m just having a hard time.”

Good job, Laken, I think sarcastically. Go have an affair when your husband gets crushing medical news. “I understand. But don’t you think you two could be there for each other? Help each other?” You can hope.

Something like anger flashes in his face again. “I’m just having trouble coming to terms with this. The thought of not being able to work, to support my family. Not being able to skate or ski or play tennis.” He shakes his head. “I’ll die, Molly.” He scrubs his hands across his head as if his hair is on fire.

“I’m really sorry, Cal.”

He jumps up from the table and grabs our Coke cans. “You want a drink?”

It’s four in the afternoon, but his face looks so forlorn. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe one.”

He goes to the fridge and pulls out a can of craft beer, sets it on the counter. “Laken’s got a bottle of merlot open.”

“That’s fine.” We sit and sip our drinks, and I’m not sure what else to say to him.

Cal clears his throat. “I don’t mean to dump this on you, Molly. You’ve got enough to deal with.” He squeezes my hand but lets go quickly. “How have you been coping?”

“I’m trying to keep busy. I’m working as many hours as I can at the bookstore.”

He huffs out a breath.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?” I clasp his arm.