I sighed, hating the stinging of tears in my eyes. I debated on whether to follow Tristan, but a moment later, the sound of his heavy footsteps up the stairs told me he was secluding himself and would likely bury himself in his writing for several hours, if not for the rest of the day and into the night. There were nights recently when he didn’t come to bed until I was asleep. Once I’d woken to find him upstairs, his shaggy head lying on the desktop, drool on a piece of paper. The moment I’d entered the room, the creaking of the floor woke him, and I was as much in the dark about his new novel as ever.

I stood and puttered around the kitchen for a while, cleaning some stray dishes and wiping down the counter and table, even though they didn’t need it. When Tristan didn’t return, I went for the ironing board cupboard. I retrieved the address book and took it outside, sitting under the shade of a tree in the back yard, where Tristan wouldn’t see me.

I knew I was being childish. I was playing the game of “If You’re Going to Hide Stuff from Me, I’m Going to Hide Stuff from You.” I tried to tell myself I was considering getting in touch with Tristan’s family because Tristan, for all his qualities, didn’t know what was best for him. That was an ugly thought, but I justified it with what he’d told me about his previous marriage. Hadn’t he locked himself in his typing room when he and Julie argued? Hadn’t she felt pushed away by his moods?

Just as soon as my eyes roamed over the names of his brothers, I snapped the book shut. I stood and paced.

“What are you doing?” I scolded myself. “Talk to him! He’s your husband.” Or did your vows of “for better or worse” mean nothing?

My face heated in shame, yet I couldn’t throw away the address book.

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