“Where did you put the old lock?”
“In the utility closet.”
“Have it reinstalled tomorrow.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Emily, can we just talk?”
“I’m trying to decide whether I’m capable of talking without saying something I’ll regret.”
The old Michael would have understood. The man I married had been thoughtful. Careful with words. Almost painfully conscious of how his actions affected other people. I didn’t know when that man became someone who believed a new lock could solve a marriage problem.
“I’m sleeping in the guest room.”
Michael frowned.
“You don’t need to.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Are you leaving me?”
I turned around.
“I don’t know.”
His face changed. I didn’t lock it. The city glowed beyond the curtains, and every few hours I heard the muffled sound of traffic twenty-nine floors below. There were eighteen unread emails from work. Instead, I brought up a blank document. WHY DID MICHAEL CHANGE THE LOCKS? But I had spent my entire career solving problems by separating facts from emotion. Three months earlier, Michael had started coming home late. He worked in commercial real estate development, and late dinners with contractors and investors were normal.
