Chapter 9
The Spaces Between
The house was quiet.
Not peaceful. Quiet.
Emma stood in the kitchen, coffee cooling between her hands while the refrigerator hummed in the background. Morning sunlight slipped through the blinds, laying thin stripes across the floor.
She stared at the cabinet.
Closed.
For a moment, she felt relief.
Then she noticed the bathroom light glowing down the hall.
One.
Her eyes drifted to the pair of shoes sitting just inside the doorway. One angled neatly against the wall. The other pointed outward.
Two.
She carried her coffee into the living room, trying to ignore the numbers before they gathered momentum. The television was on, but she couldn’t remember turning it on. Some morning show filled the room with cheerful voices that never seemed to pause long enough for silence.
She muted it.
The silence was louder.
Mark walked in a few minutes later, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Morning.”
She smiled automatically.
“Morning.”
He kissed the top of her head while reaching for a mug.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
She nodded without looking at him.
Three.
He left the spoon on the counter instead of putting it in the sink.
Four.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said.
“Just tired.”
“You work too much.”
She almost laughed.
If only work were the reason.
Mark reached into the cabinet for a coffee cup.
He closed the door this time.
Emma blinked.
Her shoulders loosened just enough for her to notice.
Maybe he was trying.
The thought warmed her more than the coffee.
“I’m thinking we should go out tonight,” he said. “Dinner maybe. Just us.”
“I’d like that.”
And she meant it.
For a few minutes they talked about nothing important. A new restaurant that had opened. A movie neither of them had seen. Whether they should finally replace the old coffee maker.
It felt…
Normal.
Mark glanced at the clock.
“I better get moving.”
He grabbed his keys from the table.
His jacket from the chair.
His lunch from the refrigerator.
He hurried toward the door.
Emma watched him leave.
The front door clicked shut.
She stood there smiling for another second before turning toward the kitchen.
The cabinet over the coffee maker hung open.
She hadn’t seen him leave it.
Maybe he opened it again.
Maybe she missed it.
Maybe—
Five.
The number landed harder than the others.
She closed the cabinet carefully.
Not angry.
Not yet.
Just disappointed.
Again.
The word echoed louder than the click of the wood.
She rested her fingertips against the cabinet door long after it was shut.
Five.
She whispered it without meaning to.
Then she walked away.
By lunchtime she couldn’t remember what she’d eaten.
By afternoon she couldn’t remember what song had been playing in the car.
But she remembered every one of the five.
Each one exactly where it had happened.
Exactly how it had looked.
Exactly how it had felt.
That frightened her more than the count itself.
Because memories of happiness faded.
The numbers never did.