“Maybe there is, Rusty.” I stood, facing him. “Maybe there is something wrong with me. But how the hell would you know when you don’t care about what I care about or want or need or …” I took in a long breath, taking advantage of his shock. “You only care that I’m doing all the things you need me to do to make your life … easy.”

“That’s not true.” His face shook with the words. “I love you. I don’t ever want to be without you. I don’t need to understand your insides or anything crazy like that.”

“What if I want to know you that way?”

“There is nothing you don’t know about me.”

“There’s so much I don’t know.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling me toward him. “You’re just upset, darling. This has all been awful. You don’t mean all these things you’re saying. You don’t.” He gently pushed me back, sliding his hands underneath my silk blouse; I pulled away. He leaned back. “I know these have been hard days, but Ellie, please love me.”

I looked at my husband and knew that if I couldn’t love him then, I couldn’t at all. I placed my hand on the side of his face. He leaned in and kissed me harder now, lifting off my shirt and unbuttoning my linen pants. He stood over me and smiled, then removed his shirt and khakis before climbing into bed. The motions were familiar—I’d known them for over twenty years—and my body slipped into the movements with ease.

Clothes were scattered on the floor and our bodies came together until Rusty was finished. He rolled to his side and stretched out next to me, placing his hand on top of my breast. “You are all I have ever wanted or needed, Ellie Calvin.”

I turned toward him so his hand fell to the mattress. I lifted the covers over our bodies. “I’m so tired.” My eyes closed.

He kissed each of my eyelids, and then he left the bed. “You sleep, darling. I’m gonna go catch the Braves game on TV.”

“’Kay,” I said, and dropped back onto the pillow.

He turned off the light and shut the door. My house surrounded me with its warmth, with all I’d invested in its rooms and spaces. This, I thought, was where I had spent my married life. Spent. Invested. I knew the words and what they meant.

I was wrapped in a bedsheet, and I had a thought as vivid and particular as any flower petal I had ever painted: I don’t want to live this story.