Instead, he was working out. A lot. There was something almost manic about his need for exercise, and it didn’t sit right with me. It had started slowly, shortly after we began spending time with Freya and Max. I’d noticed a general uptick in my husband’s self-care: regular trips to the barber, green smoothies for breakfast, twenty-five push-ups each morning. But now he’d added trail running to his repertoire, spending an hour or more in the forest on rugged terrain. His favorite route was in Hyak Canyon, a twenty-five-minute drive from our cottage. By the time he drove there, ran for an hour, drove home, showered and changed, it was three hours he could have spent writing.

I was enduring financial anxiety myself, but I didn’t have time to gallop around in the woods. When I wasn’t at the store, I was working on the books, trying to keep the business in the black. Reduced winter hours helped. Hawking Mercantile was currently closed on Mondays and Tuesdays and had reduced operations for the rest of the week. Low worked only Saturdays, until business picked up. Brian had suggested that I lay her off until July, but I’d be able to give her more shifts during the Christmas shopping season. Low gave me the freedom to run business errands (to the bank, to the accountant, to the store to replenish the cookie cupboard), and to be available if Freya needed me.

A perk of my diminished schedule was more time with my husband. Between the store and his novel, we had been existing in separate orbits. These extra hours would close the gap between us, get us back on track. I envisioned lunch dates, walks, even some afternoon delight.

But it didn’t turn out that way.

It was a Monday, early in December. Next week, I would open the store for Christmas shopping and would be spending more time away from home. I’d decided to make Brian his favorite lunch. It would be nice to share a midday meal together before I returned to extended retail hours. As I grated cheese onto a piece of bread and tuna, Brian entered in running gear.

“I’m going for a run in the canyon.”

“But I’m making tuna melts.”

“I’ll eat later.” He was already lacing up his shoes. “I need to burn off some steam.”

The block of cheddar I’d been grating hit the counter with a thud. “I don’t know how you’re going to fix your book if you never spend any time writing.” It came out snarkier than I’d intended, but I was hurt. I didn’t even like tuna melts. This lunch was for him.

Brian righted himself and looked at me. I’d expected anger or defiance or a lecture on the creative process, but all he said was: “I need to do this.”