"Not close."
"What does that mean?"
"I looked at apartments online once."
That hurt.
Amy cried immediately.
"I'm sorry."
"Did you contact anybody?"
"No."
"Visit anything?"
"No."
"Did you tell Rachel?"
"Yes."
I laughed bitterly.
"Rachel knows everything, apparently."
"I'm sorry."
"What did she say?"
"She told me not to make decisions while grieving."
"Good advice."
"Yes."
I looked toward the window.
Rain still moved down the glass.
"Why didn't you tell me that either?"
"Because we got better."
"Amy."
"I know."
"No, listen."
I turned back.
"Getting better doesn't erase how bad something was."
She nodded.
"I deserved to know how close you felt to the edge."
"You're right."
"Marriage isn't protecting somebody from every ugly thought you ever have."
"I know."
"It's letting them know the marriage is in danger before they discover it years later over dessert."
She cried harder.
"You're right."
I felt cruel.
But I also meant it.
For the first time that night, our anniversary stopped being a confession and became a real conversation.
Not romantic.
Not graceful.
Real.
We talked about things we had edited out of our marriage because bringing them up seemed unnecessary once the immediate crisis passed.
I told Amy there had been a period four years earlier when I resented how much she worked.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"I complained."
"You complained about dinner getting cold."
"I thought that was saying it."
"It wasn't."
"I know that now."
I admitted that after my promotion two years earlier, I had secretly applied for a job in Seattle.
Amy stared.
"You applied?"
"Yes."
"You never told me."
"I didn't get an interview."
"That's not the point."
"I know."
"Would you have moved?"
"I don't know."
"Without asking me?"
"No."
"But you applied before asking."
"Yes."
Now it was her turn to look hurt.
There we were.
Two people celebrating ten years of trust while discovering all the small places where trust had stopped just short of complete honesty.
Not affairs.
Not secret families.
Not hidden bank accounts.
But withheld fears.
Private possibilities.
Conversations rehearsed alone and never shared.
Maybe every long marriage has them.
That realization was comforting and frightening.
"I think we both do this," Amy said.
"Do what?"
"Only tell each other feelings after we've solved them."
I thought about that.
She was right.
I told her about work problems once I had fixed them.
She told me family problems once they were settled.
We spared each other uncertainty.
It sounded loving.
Sometimes it was.
Sometimes it was avoidance disguised as kindness.
"Maybe we don't trust each other with unfinished things," I said.
Amy looked at me.
"That's exactly it."
I pointed toward her.
"You especially."
"True."
"You present final reports."
She laughed.
"I work in marketing."
"Your emotions shouldn't need PowerPoint."
That laugh came naturally.
For the first time all night, the tension loosened.
The restaurant was nearly empty now.
Our waiter approached carefully.