Chapter 8: The Terms

Caleb's POV

My mother's garage smelled of gasoline and old apples.

I turned on the space heater and set two folding chairs in front of it.

Willa sat on one without taking her coat off, dripping onto the concrete.

Agnes was asleep upstairs with her hearing aids out.

I had stood in the driveway and decided to tell Willa everything, and I did it in order.

The transfer.

The note.

Archie's question at the table.

The school portal, the pickup, the fence, the truck.

I played her the video on my phone, with the sound turned up.

She watched my brother kiss my wife's temple.

She watched Lydia lean into him.

She did not make a sound, and she did not look away.

When it finished, she put the phone face down on her knee.

"And Lydia admitted it," she said.

"Tuesday night."

"And you've known since Tuesday."

"Yes."

"Four days."

"I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't know what it would do."

"You sat across from me at that coffee shop."

"I almost told you."

"Almost." She said the word like it tasted bad.

"I cried in front of you, Caleb. I told you I wanted to write her a thank-you note."

I had nothing to say that wasn't an excuse.

"Five Thanksgivings," Willa said. "Five Christmases."

"You sat across from my son every Sunday of his life."

"And you never once asked why he laughs like her."

"I never knew."

"You teach physics. You observe things for a living."

"I observe pendulums," I said. "I didn't observe my own wife."

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