To him, saying sorry was something he only did so that I would forgive him. That was the entire transaction. He offered the words; I accepted them. And if I didn't accept them, then I was the problem. The jealous wife. The unreasonable woman. The girl who should have been grateful that a man like Simone Valente came home to her at all.
I guessed it was my fault, in the end. He knew I'd always forgive him because I loved him. He had learned that the way a man learns the combination to a safe. Through repetition. Through testing the limits. Through understanding that the lock would always give.
And this was the price I had to pay.
The next morning, I didn't find my husband on the couch.
The blanket was folded. The pillow was back in the hall closet. The espresso machine in the kitchen was cold, which meant he hadn't even stopped for coffee before leaving.
I didn't wonder where he went early in the morning. It wasn't the first time. He'd be back when it was already late in the evening, slipping through the front door with the particular exhaustion of a man who has spent the day being someone else's comfort.