The weekend arrived without much fanfare.
By Saturday morning, San Francisco was wrapped in fog again, the kind that turned the windows pale gray and made the whole city feel half-asleep.
I was standing in the kitchen making coffee when Elliott finally came downstairs wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt from one of his restaurants.
He already looked stressed.
Not angry.
Just preoccupied in that constant way he'd been lately, like his brain never fully left work anymore.
I slid a mug toward him across the counter.
"Don't forget," I said carefully, "we're supposed to leave for Carmel around ten."
Elliott frowned slightly.
"For what?"
I stared at him.
"For the weekend."
Blank look.
"The cottage on the river?" I continued. "I booked it months ago."
Recognition finally crossed his face.
Then immediately disappeared again.
"Jonathan," he said, already exhausted somehow, "are you actually fucking serious right now?"
Something in my stomach tightened.
"What?"
"I can't go to Carmel this weekend."
He grabbed his coffee and leaned against the counter.
"We have all the Napa paperwork starting Monday. I still have contracts to sign, investors calling every five seconds, staffing issues—"
"It's two days."
"It's not two days," he snapped. "It's an entire weekend I do not have time for right now."
I folded my arms.
"You promised."
"And things changed."
I looked at him for a long moment.
The cottage reservation had been my idea of fixing things.
Not dramatically.
Not therapy. Not confrontation. Not some giant emotional discussion.
Just two days together.
Wine. The ocean. Quiet.
Us remembering how to exist around each other without restaurants and meetings and exhaustion sitting between us like a third person in the marriage.
But Elliott was already mentally somewhere else.
"I already booked everything," I said quietly.
"Then go."
I blinked.
"Go?"
He shrugged.
"Take your little twink with you."
I stared at him.
"My what?"
Elliott rubbed a hand over his face.
"Oh my God, Jonathan, you know what I mean. Martin. Take Martin."
I actually laughed once out of disbelief.
"You want me to go to Carmel — my hometown — with a man who has been living in our guest room for less than a week?"
Elliott took a sip of coffee like this was the most reasonable idea in the world.
"Why not? You two seem to get along."
"That is not the point."
"I'm not going," he said flatly.
"And if I run into my mother?"
"You're forty-two years old."
"Yes, and she still calls me every time someone in Carmel sees me buying wine after eight p.m."
Elliott snorted tiredly despite himself.
"I'm serious."
"Jonathan," he said, "you make everything sound so dramatic."
I looked at him in disbelief.
"You're sending me on a romantic couples' weekend reservation with a French Canadian art student I barely know."
"He's not a student."
"That's the detail you're correcting?"
Elliott finally looked at me fully then, dark circles visible beneath his eyes.
For a second, he just seemed... worn down.
Not cruel.
Not dismissive.
Just too exhausted to give anything more than the bare minimum emotionally.
"Just go have fun," he said quietly. "Please."
That please took some of the fight out of me.
I stood there another moment before finally exhaling through my nose.
"Fine."
Elliott nodded once in relief and immediately checked his phone again.
Conversation over.
I walked out of the kitchen trying not to feel disappointed.
Martin was sprawled sideways across the guest room bed sketching in a notebook when I knocked lightly against the open door.
He looked up immediately.
"What's wrong?"
"We're going to Carmel."
His eyebrows lifted.
"We?"
"Elliott bailed."
Martin closed the notebook slowly.
"Oh."
"Apparently I'm now taking you instead."
A grin spread across his face.
"Cool. I've never been."
"It's mostly rich retirees, art galleries, and people pretending they understand wine."
"That sounds incredible."
I leaned against the doorway.
"There's also an aquarium."
His face lit up instantly.
"Oh my God. Really?"
I laughed despite myself.
"Yes, Martin. Really."
"Can we go?"
"Sure. Why not? Apparently I have absolutely nothing else to do this weekend."
He sat up straighter immediately.
"I can be packed in ten minutes."
"That's because you own four objects."
"Minimalism is emotionally freeing."
"No," I replied, "homelessness is emotionally motivating."
He pointed at me dramatically.
"You know, for a corporate professional, you're surprisingly mean."
"And yet you're still coming to Carmel."
Martin stood and grabbed his duffel bag.
"Honestly? I would follow anyone willing to buy me aquarium tickets."
I shook my head, trying not to smile as I headed back toward my bedroom to pack.
And somewhere underneath the irritation and disappointment still sitting heavily in my chest was another feeling I didn't entirely recognize yet.
Relief.
At least I wouldn't be spending the weekend alone.