"And then you came home and kept the house running," Nia said. "And then the job ended. And then you decided I was too fragile or too important or too far away to be trusted with the truth."
"Not fragile," Marcus said. "Sacred. Which might be a worse way to treat a partner."
Nia almost smiled. It hurt. "Yes. It might."
She stood and walked to the sliding door that looked onto their backyard—the yard with the trampoline Amara had outgrown and the grill Marcus used for birthdays and the rosebush Denise Hayes had mailed as a bare-root plant with instructions written in her sharp hand. The roses were still blooming in stubborn reds. Nia wondered whether the Sacramento family would keep them or dig them out for something easier.
"I'm going to call my mother," Nia said. "Not for money. For air. Then I'm going to take a shower. Then I'm going to lie down in our bed. You can sleep there too if you can stand being near me while I'm angry. Or you can take the couch. I won't decide your guilt for you."
"I'll take the couch," Marcus said. "Not because I don't want to be near you. Because you deserve a night where my breathing isn't another demand."