“Jesus,” she said when I finished.

I had left a couple of parts out. I did not give Sarah the details of Trixie’s confession. I hadn’t decided what to do yet with that bit of information.

And I also left out the part where Trixie opened up about her fondness for me. There was no need to get into all that, either.

Later, sitting with Sarah on the couch, I said, “I think I may quit the paper.”

Sarah turned and looked at me. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, I don’t even know if Magnuson’ll take me back, take me off suspension, but if he does, I don’t know whether it’s right for me. And my being there, it’s not working for you, either. You’re going places. I mean, you lost the foreign editor thing this time, because of me, but there’ll be other opportunities. You’ve got more of a future there than I do.”

“That’s not true.”

“The thing is, Sarah, I don’t know whether I have what it takes.” I paused. “I don’t know whether I can tell the whole story.”

“What do you mean? About what?”

“About…anything. To be a half-decent journalist, you have to be willing to let all the secrets out, to tell everything. I haven’t been doing that. Not with some of the stories I’ve already done, not with the one about what happened up at my father’s place, and not with what’s happened this past week.”

“You’re just too close to these things. They’ve all been too personal. It’s different.”

I shrugged, looked down. “It’ll all sort itself out. As long as I’ve got you, it doesn’t matter to me what I’m doing.”

We hadn’t planned to make a dramatic entrance, but when Sarah and I walked into the kitchen, my arm hanging lightly around her nightshirted shoulder, her arm loose around my waist, thumb tucked into the waistband of my pajamas, I guess we made quite a picture for the kids, who were sitting at the table, eating toast and drinking coffee.

“Ooohhh, check it out,” Angie said.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Paul said. “Guys, get a room.”

“Where do you think we just came from?” I said.

Paul grimaced. I poured coffee for Sarah and me, opened the cupboard looking for cereal.

“How about eggs?” Sarah asked. Sarah makes great eggs.

“Won’t you be late to Home!?” I asked. She was the one heading off to work, not me.

“Fuck Frieda,” she said.

“But my heart belongs to you,” I said. Paul and Angie exchanged glances.

Sarah was leaning into the open fridge. “You want eggs or not?”

“Yes,” I said. “I want eggs.”

And so she made eggs. With cheese, and Canadian bacon, and toast and jam.