“You don’t need to know,” he says sharply.

He lifts his fists to his eyes, pressing his knuckles hard against them. The gesture softens him somehow, and me along with him. He looks like a little boy hiding in a corner from the monsters under his bed.

His hands drop as he sighs. “I will tell you tomorrow. I promise. All right?”

“No. No!” There might not be a tomorrow. “What is happening? Just—”

“Things have a way of coming true when you say them out loud, especially today, and I’d rather not tempt fate. I am leaving it at that, Nina, and that is final.”

I start away, steaming at the patriarchal tone ringing through his voice.

I cannot face him right now, cheeks flaming. I will lose my temper, the emotional high ground, the logic of the argument.

There she is, he’ll be able to say.

What hurts the most is not that this is out of character for us—Hugh patronizing, me giving in. It is us, isn’t it? This is our relationship. I’m Hugh’s dependent. I’m like a pretty souvenir he picked up on vacation and brought home with him. Not even that pretty! I’ve always wondered why me, what did he see in me above all others, but I haven’t wanted to face it full-on or push against it for fear of it all disappearing.

For seven years, I’ve allowed this dynamic to grow, to fester, and yet I cannot fight him now. Especially not now. For my entire life, I’ve been the finger in the dike that prevents the flood. All I can do is leave the scene with my composure intact.

“You’re holding the dinner, then,” he calls behind me, casual. “They got their way.”

I whirl back, my face reddening even more. “Who is they?”

He doesn’t answer. He jingles his key ring instead. I want to rip it off him.

“Yes, we’re doing the dinner. Which I didn’t even know was a tradition. Did you say no to it?”

Scant hours ago, that last question might have been an apology, a concession—“Sorry, dear, I didn’t realize!”—but right now it’s another accusation.

“It doesn’t matter.” He looks out toward the sea. “Let them come. Let it all come, have it out in the open. Come out of the shadows, you bastards. I’m sick of waiting for you to pounce.”

Who is he talking to? The only one I can see hiding in the shadows is him. He’s making less and less sense. I edge closer and breathe in, catching the whiff of whiskey on his breath. I see now that there’s a bottle on the floor just past him, empty, on its side.

He mistakes my approach for a conciliatory gesture. His arm glides outward, reaching for me, touching nothing.