Martin grabs Tess’s arm in the corner of the kitchen—no one else is looking—and then he can’t figure out what he means to say or how he’ll say it. She smells good, fresh from the shower—the lotion that she uses, her specific Tess-out-of-the-shower smell. He looks at her face, which he knows better than any other person’s, the freckle below her left cheekbone, the way she smirks, her eyes wide, when he grabs hold of her like this. He wants to tell her what it was like out there, how cold and white, the blankness. He wants to tell her that he missed her, though that’s not right. He wants to tell her he should never have watched those YouTube videos of his student, that he’s sorry for it. He wants to tell her that he’s going to send the draft emails and who gives a fuck if it’s not legally advisable. He’s going to tell those girls he’s sorry, because he is. He wants to tell her maybe he shouldn’t ever go back to work, that he thinks he sabotaged his job on purpose, that maybe if he sends those emails that will be the end. Maybe he’s not young enough, not smart enough; none of what he’s done his whole life has meant much to anyone, and maybe he should try to find something that does. They should move up here, move somewhere all alone and off the grid where the only thing they do all day is figure out new ways to care for one another. She could start a small wills and estates firm and be home every night by four. He could stay at home and take care of the kids. Why don’t people up and change their lives more often, he wants to ask her.

Stella comes bounding in because her dress got snagged when she was playing with the twins and Tess has to fix it. Bea and Colin are fighting over what they’re meant to build with the Magna-Tiles. Jack hit Jamie with a toy horse. Martin looks down, breathes in, reaches for her, but Tess is gone.

Quinn stands outside the door to the other bathroom, angry. That picture of the tree that Alice sent her daughter. Now she knows who is to blame, why Maddie was gone. She stops, not sure if she’s allowed her anger. She stops and waits outside the bathroom door. Fuck you, she whispers, but there’s no point in knocking, storming in and screaming. It’s a futile, useless hatred. She still knows enough to know she can’t say it out loud.