Later that night, back in their flat, he had said, “Sorry. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. It wasn’t true.”

“You said it to upset me,” Caroline replied.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

She’d forgiven him the next day, because she trusted him, even though she shouldn’t (did he blame her for that, too?). Part of Tom had watched the whole scene play out from a distance, observing his own remorse—which was genuine—while wondering when the next time would be.

And there was always a next time. Tom would grow cold, would become withdrawn, would snap at Caroline over nothing. Would be critical of her when she was eating too loudly, or scattering crumbs over the carpet, leaving all her make-up out in the bathroom, or her clothes on the floor. She had been messy; that much was true. Mostly he managed to keep these criticisms to himself, silent, savage ripples that he felt in his chest as he watched her. Sometimes they would escape in a sharp remark that he would later regret. It was one thing to be like his father, another thing to let everyone know it.

Caroline was usually patient with him when he was like this, when the depression came and everything around him seemed to constrict and darken. Perhaps he resented her even more for that, because in her quiet watchfulness during these times she reminded him of his mother.

He’d gone through Caroline’s phone once while she was out on a run, convinced (for no reason that made sense) that she was cheating on him, panic bursting in his chest as he scrolled through her texts. He’d found nothing, of course, beyond some messages to a colleague that were slightly too friendly in tone—but that was Caroline’s tone with everyone. Anyway, that wasn’t the point, Tom thought afterwards. The point was that he’d done it. He never mentioned it to Caroline.

But he grew resentful if she stayed out late at work drinks, or even if she didn’t stay out late; even if she went at all. He would be there, the man she’d been messaging, and if not him, then someone else. But Caroline worked in publishing; she needed to go to these drinks things. Tom allowed her to go (yes, allowed her, he heard it too), then punished her with his distance when she came home. When this happened, she might cry or she might react with anger of her own. Always, when the blackness had lifted the next day, Tom would feel ashamed. But he’d known exactly what he was doing at the time, and he knew he’d do it again.