I shake my head. “No. I just don’t know what I should be doing. Looking for her? Staying here in case she comes back?”

My last question is a stupid one. She’s not just going to come back.

“Have you eaten anything?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Not really hungry.”

“Right. But you need to eat. We’re grilling burgers tonight. Maybe a few oysters too.”

I thank her. “I think I’ll just go inside and lie down.”

She gives me a sad smile. “Hang in there, Adam. Let me know if you change your mind now, all right?”

“Promise,” I tell her.

CHAPTER TEN

KRISTEN

The pristine white of the bedsheets is blemished with reddish smears. At first, it passes through my mind that I inadvertently left a lipstick on the bed the night before. Damn. But when I look closer, its shade and consistency bother me. I touch the red and call for my husband.

Connor enters from the hallway, a white towel around his trim waist even though he finished his shower a while ago. He’s been sprawled on the couch in the front room all this time, making quiet moaning sounds.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

He puts a palm to his forehead. “Brain’s pounding like a jackhammer,” he says, dropping the towel and fishing for some clothes on top of a white lacquered dresser. “But yeah. I’m fine.”

I study him, and then he follows my gaze to the red on the sheets.

“Are you bleeding?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. Maybe a little. Cut from work reopened.”

I cross the room to his place by the dresser and study the slice along his forefinger.

“Lot of blood for that small a slice,” I tell him.

“What can I say?” Connor asks, stepping into some boxer briefs. “I’m a drunk and a bleeder.”

I worry that he’s going to break out in song and bastardize the oldie “I’m a Believer.” He’s like that. Ordinarily I don’t mind. I’m just worn down at the moment. Work. Our marriage. Our prospects for parenthood. All of those things stack up at times, and levity doesn’t do much to alleviate the situation. In fact, in those instances in which Connor tries to bring a little lightheartedness to a problem, there is often an endearing miss. It’s me. Not him. I just can’t get the list of things I need to do out of my head. It’s how I’m wired. I’m on time. I’m always prepared. If someone tries to switch gears on me, look out. I just don’t operate that way.

Last night I slept on the cabin’s gray velvet sectional, which faces the water and a river-rock fireplace. Connor was too drunk and agitated to share the bed with anyone. Naturally, it wasn’t how I hoped our first night of the long Memorial Day weekend would be. We’ve been trying to get pregnant off and on for more than four years. Seriously. Clomid. Folic acid. OvaBoost. We’ve done basal temp. We’ve collected my eggs and frozen them. We routinely collect Connor’s sperm to go into cryopreservation so that I can get a syringe during my lunch hour and double up on the efforts while at work. Yes, at work. I’ll disappear into the executive lounge and lock the door and do my thing. It’s fine. Really. I’ve never been one to shy away from doing what I have to do to get things done. Meeting at nine. Court at one. Insemination at three. Commute home at six thirty with my legs somehow clamped tightly the entire way.