They sat on a bench. Shadow lay at Marcus's feet. The afternoon was mild; kids shouted on a distant playground; a man threw a tennis ball for a young Labrador who ran as if the earth owed him speed.
"I want to explain," Jasmine said. "Not excuse. Explain."
"I'm listening."
She told him about the nights. About the way Shadow would stand at the front door for an hour after dusk, waiting. About the time she came home from a twelve-hour shift and found that Shadow had chewed through a corner of the sofa — not out of malice, the trainer at the pet store later said, but out of separation distress. About the bill for the sofa. About the bill for the emergency vet visit when Shadow got into a bag of chocolate she had left on the counter because she was too tired to put groceries away properly. About calling her sister in Atlanta and hearing, Why are you still with a man who's never home? About the landlord leaving a note about the barking complaints. About standing in the living room one Tuesday morning staring at the empty photo frame she'd taken down to clean and realizing she could not remember the last time she had laughed without effort.
"I googled shelters," she said, and her voice was flat with self-disgust. "I told myself it was temporary. That they'd hold him. That when you came home we could... I don't know. Get him back. Or find him a better place. I told myself a lot of lies in a row until they felt like a plan."
Marcus watched a leaf skitter across the path. "You almost got him killed."
"I know."